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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

LATER  READINGS 

[THREE  YEARS  AFTER] 


"And  how  we  spun 

A  shroud  of  talk  to  hide  us  from  the  sun 
Of  this  familiar  life  ...  or  how 
You  listened  to  some  interrupted  flow 
Of  visionary  rhyme,  —  in  joy  and  pain 
Struck  from  the  inmost  fountains  of  my  hrain, 
With  little  skill  perhaps  ;  or  how  we  sought 
Those  de  pest  wells  of  passion  or  of  thought." 
SHELLEY  :  LETTEB  TO  MARIA  GISBORNE. 

"  And  now 

Our  talk  grew  somewhat  serious,  as  may  be 
Talk  interrupted  with  such  raillery 
As  mocks  itself,  because  it  cannot  scorn 
The  thoughts  it  would  extinguish." 

SHELLEY:  JULIAN  AND  MADDALO. 


A   POET'S    PORTFOLIO 


LATER   READINGS 


BY 
WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY 

D.  C.  L,    (OXON.) 
K.  C.  C.  I.,  OFF.  LEG.  D'HONNEUR,  ETC. 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1894 


Copyright,  1894, 
BY  WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.   S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


/> s 


f- 


A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

LATER    HEADINGS 


/7e.  Oh,  is  that  you  ?  I  am  delighted 
to  see  you.  This  is  a  totally  unexpected 
pleasure.  I  had  no  idea  that  you  were 
in  these  regions.  When  did  you  arrive, 
and  where  are  you  staying  ? 

She.  I  arrived  only  yesterday,  and  am 
staying  at  the  same  place  ;  at  that  little 
old  farm-house,  you  know,  where  I  put 
up  when  1  was  here  three  years  ago.  It 
is  very  primitive  and  unpretentious,  but 
it  is  clean  ;  and  the  people  are  so  kindly, 
and  in  every  way  it  was  so  pleasant  to 
me  there,  that  I  thought  I  would  return 
and  spend  a  month  here  again.  But  I  am 
quite  as  much  surprised  to  find  you  here 
as  you  can  possibly  be  to  find  me.  I  had 
no  idea  that  you  were  in  these  regions. 
I  thought  you  had  gone  to  Switzerland. 


2  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  I  did  have  a  half  plan  to  go 
there,  but  after  wavering  for  some  time, 
I  finally  decided  to  return  here.  I  had 
some  literary  work  to  do  ;  and  here  it 
is  quiet  and  peaceful,  and  one  is  beyond 
the  range  of  tourists,  that  throng  in  Swit 
zerland  and  buzz  about  everywhere  like 
flies.  There  is  not  a  nook  or  corner  or 
peak  or  valley  that  is  not  filled  with 
eager  crowds  of  pleasure  -  seekers,  and 
where  one  can  really  find  peace.  So, 
knowing  that  here  at  least  I  should  find 
rest  and  solitude,  I  determined  to  return 
to  this  place. 

She.  And  what,  may  I  ask,  is  this  lit 
erary  work  that  you  have  laid  out,  —  a 
poem,  a  novel,  a  romance,  a  history,  or 
what? 

He.  "Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge, 
till  you  approve  the  deed,"  as  Macbeth 
said  to  his  "  dearest  chuck." 

She.  Dearest  chuck,  indeed!  A  queer 
sort  of  a  dearest  chuck  was  Lady  Mac 
beth,  was  she  not  ?  But  whatever  she 
was,  your  "  deed,"  I  hope,  will  be  differ 
ent  from  his  ;  or  do  you  intend  to  mur 
der  some  other  literary  man  with  the  dag 
ger  of  your  pen  ? 


LATER  READINGS  3 

He.  Oh  !  You  wish  to  be  an  accessory 
before  the  fact,  do  you  ? 

She.    Perhaps. 

He.  Oh,  no  !  Where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
't  is  folly,  you  know,  to  be  wise. 

She.  You  are  always  quoting,  as 
usual. 

He.  It  is  a  vice  of  mine,  I  admit,  but 
an  innocent  one  after  all;  so  you  must 
forgive  me.  Do  our  best,  the  world  has 
always  been  before  us  in  all  our  thoughts 
and  doings  and  sayings,  and  it  is  pleasant 
to  hook  one's  self  on  to  some  famous  pre 
decessor  who  has  said  our  best  things  be 
fore  us.  Nevertheless,  you  know,  "  Pe- 
reant  isti  qui  nostra  ante  nos  dixerunt." 

She.  No,  I  don't  know  anything  of  the 
kind.  I  can  forgive  you  for  quoting,  so 
long  as  your  quotation  is  of  something 
familiar,  but  when  you  come  to  quoting 
old  Latin  tags  I  cannot  forgive  you ;  and 
to  take  advantage  of  me  in  that  way  is 
neither  fair  nor  friendly. 

He.  I  will  try  to  be  fair,  and  certainly 
I  will  be  friendly.  But  you  are  standing. 
Won't  you  take  a  seat  on  this  mossy  bank  ? 

She.  I  thank  you.  Yes,  I  will,  for  I 
have  had  a  good  long  walk,  and  nothing 


4  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

could  be  more  enchanting  than  this  spot. 
It  is  as  enchanting  as  it  seemed  to  me  in 
my  memory,  for  if  I  do  not  mistake,  it 
was  here  that  we  spent  a  long,  pleasant 
morning  some  three  years  ago,  when  you 
read  me  a  number  of  poems  out  of  your 
sketch-book.  You  see,  I  have  come  back 
again  to  the  same  place,  with  no  expec 
tation,  indeed,  of  seeing  you  here,  but  to 
renew  the  old  memory  of  that  delightful 
day  ;  for  it  was  a  delightful  day,  was  it 
not? 

He.  It  was  to  me.  As  to  whether  it 
was  to  you,  you  best  know.  Of  course 
you  will  say  that  it  was. 

She.  Yes  ;  I  say  it  was,  because  it 
was  ;  and  more  than  that,  you  know  it 
was.  What  could  be  pleasanter  than  to 
sit  under  the  trees,  and  look  out  over  this 
charming  prospect,  and  hear  this  brook 
gurgling  in  its  downward  course  over  the 
moss-covered  boulders,  playing  its  deli 
cate  accompaniment  to  the  poet's  voice 
as  he  read  his  own  poems  ? 

He.  That  depends  very  much  upon  who 
the  poet  is  and  what  the  poems  are  that 
he  reads.  To  hear  a  real  poet  read  his 
poems  is  delightful,  I  admit,  always  pro- 


LATER  READINGS  5 

vided  he  reads  them  well.  But  I  can 
conceive  of  nothing  more  tedious  and  irri 
tating  than  to  listen  to  a  lot  of  common 
place  verse,  read  by  a  commonplace  poet, 
or  so-called  poet,  who  expects  you  to 
praise  everything  he  reads. 

She.  But  that  every  poet  expects,  or  at 
least  desires,  whether  he  is  a  real  poet,  as 
you  say,  or  not.  But  you  must  confess 
that  I  did  dare  to  criticise  much  that  you 
read,  and  I  on  my  part  will  confess  that 
you  took  all  my  criticisms  in  a  kindly 
spirit,  and  now  I  expect  just  such  another 
morning. 

He.   Oh  !  you  do,  do  you  ? 

She.  Yes,  I  do  !  and  if  that  does  not 
imply  a  pretty  compliment  to  you,  I 
know  not  what  will.  But  what  are  you 
mooning  about  now,  —  writing,  drawing, 
dreaming,  or  what  ? 

He.  Well,  I  suppose  "  mooning "  is 
about  the  best  word  to  describe  my  pres 
ent  mood.  I  am  doing  what  the  trees  and 
the  flowers  and  the  common  people  of 
the  earth,  that  we  call  weeds,  are  doing. 
Growing,  I  hope,  but  at  least  submitting 
myself  idly  to  all  the  strong  influences 
of  nature,  and  not  bothering  my  head 


6  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

with  anything  in  particular,  —  not  work 
ing,  as  we  call  it.  The  best  things  that 
ever  come  to  us  come  without  our  will. 
They  are  gifts  from  who  knows  where. 
So  I  am  lying  here  fallow,  ready  to  re 
ceive  any  seed  that  falls,  weed  or  flower, 
hoping  that  if  anything  comes,  it  may 
prove  to  be  a  perfect  flower,  —  that  is,  if 
I  hope  for  anything,  for  I  am  not  ener 
getic  enough  to-day  even  to  hope.  To 
hope  is  to  seek,  and  to  long,  and  I  am 
only  idly  mooning,  — 

She.  And  I  come  in  to  interrupt  you, 
like  a  stone  thrown  into  a  quiet  pool  of 
water,  and  scare  away  all  your  dreams. 
A  horrible  reality,  am  I  not  ? 

He.  Yes,  a  reality  you  are,  and  a  dream, 
too.  But  let  me  add  that  you  are  a 
charming  reality.  I  am  truly  delighted 
to  see  you.  What  a  wonderful  hat  that  is 
of  yours.  What  an  almost  ideal  dress, 
so  light  and  delicate  in  color.  Really, 
you  might  be,  perhaps  you  are,  a  sylph  of 
the  woods. 

She.  Nonsense !  Why  do  you  talk 
nonsense  to  me  ? 

He.  You  like  it,  —  you  know  you  do ; 
and  was  there  ever  a  woman  who  did  not 


LATER  READINGS  1 

wish  her  dress  above  all  things  to  be  ad 
mired  ?  1  know  we  men  are  very  clumsy 
in  expressing  our  admiration,  and  nearly 
if  not  quite  always  praise  the  wrong  thing. 
We  are  far  less  clever  than  you  of  the 
other  sex,  who  can  talk  for  hours  on  the 
subject  of  dress,  and  show  such  know 
ledge  and  taste,  and  discuss  with  such 
warmth  the  tying  of  a  bow,  the  folds  of 
a  skirt,  the  arrangement  and  color  of  a 
ribbon,  or  the  trimming  of  a  bonnet  —  I 
beg  your  pardon,  I  mean  a  hat. 

She.  Oh,  if  you  are  in  this  mood,  I 
am  going.  Good-by. 

He.  No,  you  are  not  going  away.  On 
the  contrary,  you  intend,  and  I  applaud 
your  intention,  to  sit  down  on  this  bank 
under  the  shadow  of  this  great  chestnut- 
tree,  and  have  a  good  long  talk. 

She.  And  if  I  consent,  what  will  you 
do  to  repay  me  for  this  expenditure  of 
my  most  valuable  time  ? 

He.   Anything  that  you  command. 

She.  Well,  read  me  some  more  poems, 
or  verses  as  you  call  them,  and  be  pleas 
ant  as  you  were  three  years  ago. 

He.  Ah  !  how  your  sex  do  like  to  play 
upon  the  weaknesses  of  mine.  With  what 


8  A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

subtle  flatteries  you  lead  us  on  to  make 
fools  of  ourselves.  No,  I  will  not  read 
you  any  more  poems.  I  dare  say  you 
have  made  all  sorts  of  fun  to  your  inti 
mate  friends  over  my  vanity  in  reading 
those  little  verses  to  you  three  years  ago. 
She.  No;  you  think  a  little  better  than 
that  of  me.  Confess  ! 

He.  Well,  at  least,  you  had  a  few  little 
private  laughs  at  my  expense,  did  you 
not  ?  Confess  ! 

She.  I  confess  nothing  of  the  kind.  On 
the  contrary,  if  I  have  to  confess,  hon 
estly,  though  I  don't  like  to  flatter  you, 
I  have  kept  in  my  memory  some  of  those 
poems  you  read,  and  often  tried  to  recall 
the  very  words.  But  memory  is  treach 
erous,  and  I  am  afraid  the  words  have 
gone.  But  the  sentiment,  the  thought, 
the  feeling  and  movement  still  remain, 
and  I  should  like  to  hear  them  all  over 
again. 

He.  Oh,  dear  me  !  no,  no,  and  no 
again!  Don't  disturb  a  pleasant  memory; 
the  vaguer  it  is,  the  better. 

She.  Please  read  me  some  new  ones, 
then. 

He.   No;  nothing  can  ever  be  repeated 


LATER  READINGS  9 

without  loss  of  its  original  charm.  Bet 
ter  to  leave  things  alone.  No  original  im 
pression  of  anything  connected  with  a 
deep  feeling  can  ever  be  renewed.  The 
second  time  has  never  the  charm  of  the 
first.  In  this  life  one  never  can  have 
both  hands  full.  We  return  to  the  old 
places  full  of  hope  and  sentiment,  but 
alas  !  the  somewhat  that  enchanted  them 
once  has  almost  always,  yes  always, 
gone.  The  Hesperian  apples  turn  to 
dust  in  the  hand  that  grasps  them.  Do 
you  remember  that  exquisite  morning  iu 
June  when  we  sailed  together  in  our 
yacht,  with  the  fresh  breeze  swelling  our 
sails,  and  the  sea  breathing  its  salt  odors 
and  gleaming  in  the  sun,  a  few  snowy 
clouds  slowly  drifting  across  the  blue  sky, 
the  white  gulls  dipping  at  intervals  into 
the  sea  and  rising  again  with  heavy  sickle- 
curved  wings,  to  sweep  away  into  the 
distance,  and  we  were  a  happy  company, 
lounging  on  deck  and  talking  and  laughing 
and  singing?  How  enchanting  it  was  !  So 
enchanting,  that  we  did  nothing  but  talk 
of  it  for  weeks  and  months,  and  we  would 
have  it  again.  Oh!  we  must  have  it  again. 
There  was  no  dissentient  voice.  So  the 


10  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

same  happy  company  (you  were  one,  you 
know)  chose  what  they  thought  a  delight 
ful  day,  and  set  forth  on  their  sail,  and 
the  early  hours  were  very  pleasant,  not 
quite  so  pleasant  in  fact  as  they  had 
been  in  memory,  but  very  pleasant,  de 
spite  some  little  drawbacks.  Somehow  or 
other,  the  hours  did  not  sing  and  rhyme 
as  they  did  before.  We  had  forgotten 
that  September  is  not  June,  and  when  we 
were  out  in  full  sea,  suddenly  a  huge 
black  cloud  lifted  itself  from  the  horizon 
and  swooped  down  on  us,  and  the  thunder 
roared,  and  the  lightning  flashed,  tearing 
its  fierce  seams  in  the  clouds ;  and  then 
came  the  rain,  as  if  it  had  never  rained 
before,  driving  us  down  into  the  cabin, 
and  the  laughter  began  to  be  a  little 
spasmodic,  and  what  began  in  hope  and 
joy  ended  in  experience.  Don't  you  re 
member  ? 

She.  I  remember  nothing  of  the  kind. 
It  is  all  an  invention  of  yours.  What  I 
remember  was  the  direct  opposite.  The 
first  day  we  had  forgotten  the  biscuit  — 
or  was  it  the  marmalade  ?  and  just  be 
cause  we  had  forgotten  it,  every  one 
wanted  it,  and  longed  for  it.  But  the 


• 


LATER   READINGS  11 

second  time  we  remembered  it  ;  and  the 
day  was  perfect,  and  it  was  ten  times  as 
pleasant  as  the  first. 

He.  We  all  of  us  long  for  what  we 
have  not  ;  that  is  natural,  necessary,  uni 
versal.  I  remember  a  little  boy  and  his 
mother  whom  I  once  met  at  Newport. 
They  occupied,  at  breakfast,  the  next 
table  to  me.  The  boy  was  willful  and  out 
of  humor,  and  the  mother,  the  light  of 
whose  life  was  evidently  the  little  boy, 
tried  in  vain  to  tempt  his  appetite  by 
offering  him  this  and  that  delicacy,  any 
thing  that  she  could  think  of,  and  the  boy 
always  sullenly  refused  her  offers.  At 
last  she  cried  out,  almost  in  despair, 
"  Well,  darling,  what  will  you  have  ?  " 
"Just  what  you  ain't  got !  "  he  answered. 
We  are  all  of  us  like  that  little  boy.  We 
sit  at  the  Banquet  of  Nature,  who  offers 
us  everything  that  heart  could  desire; 
and  we  turn  peevishly  away,  and  cry  out 
for  something  impossible  that  cannot  be 
given. 

She.  As  for  Nature's  offering  us  every 
thing,  I  deny  it.  There  is  no  such  harsh 
stepmother  as  she  is  ;  nearly  everything 
we  long  for  and  pray  for  she  denies, 


12  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

and  pelts  us  with  misfortunes.  Even  her 
bonbons  have  very  frequently  stones  in 
them.  Sometimes,  I  admit,  she  is  in 
good  humor  and  gives  what  we  crave, 
but  this  is  very  rare.  Ordinarily  she  is 
harsh  and  cruel,  and  only  jeers  and 
laughs  at  us  ;  and  then  she  is  so  capri 
cious,  —  to-day  all  smiles,  and  to-morrow 
all  threats  and  blows.  Offers  us  every 
thing  that  heart  could  desire?  Yes,  I  think 
so.  She  may  offer  them  to  you.  She 
gives  you  poems,  —  those  are  her  best 
of  bonbons,  —  but  to  me  what  does  she 
give  ? 

He.  Charm,  beauty,  a  happy  heart, 
and  a  beautiful  dress,  and  art  to  wear 
it  with  grace.  Your  hat  itself  is  a  poem, 
with  those  soft  feathers  that  look  as  if 
they  had  come  from  a  cherub's  wing. 
Where  did  you  get  it  ? 

She.  Please  don't  talk  nonsense,  but 
read  me  something,  won't  you? 

He.  I  thought  I  was  making  myself 
very  agreeable.  Don't  you  think  I  show 
a  good  deal  of  ability  in  my  description 
of  your  hat  ? 

She.  Do  say  something  serious  ;  read 
me  a  serious  poem. 


LATER  READINGS  13 

He.  Oh,  well,  when  you  assume  that 
tone  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  do 
but  to  sacrifice  myself  ;  and  here  is  a 
really  serious  poem,  which  I  call  "  The 
Bride  dressed  for  the  Ball." 

She.  Now  I  know  it 's  going  to  be  ridic 
ulous.  The  very  name  is  enough.  But 
I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  hear  it. 

He.  Brace  your  mind  to  it.  It  is  a 
little  sad,  perhaps,  but  things  in  life  are 
so  sad. 

She.   Oh,  then,  it  is  a  serious  poem. 

He.   Very,  very  sad,  and  here  it  is. 

Do  I  look  well  ?     How  do  you  like  this 

dress  ? 

Charming  ?     Enchanting  ?     Oh  ! 
Really  I  am  so  pleased.     You  like  it  ? 

Yes? 
/  think  it 's  pretty,  too. 

She.  There  !  I  knew  it  would  be  some 
nonsense  like  that.  But  go  on,  since  you 
have  begun. 

He. 

I've  put  the  diamond  necklace  on,  you 
see  ! 

And  on  my  breast,  see  !  here 


14          A   POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Are  those  sweet  flowers  you  brought  to 
day  to  me. 
One  kiss  for  them  ?     Yes,  dear  ! 

Be  careful,  do  be  careful,  oh,  I  say,  — 
See  how  you  've  crushed  those  flowers. 

She.  No,  on  the  whole  I  don't  care 
about  hearing  any  more  of  those  verses. 
I  knew  they  would  be  very  foolish  from 
the  very  title  you  gave  them,  and  so  did 
you,  Fritz,  did  not  you  ?  That  bark  of 
yours  was  very  expressive,  and  you  don't 
like  them,  do  you,  darling  ;  and  we  won't 
hear  them,  will  we  ? 

He.  Ah,  that  is  Fritz's  opinion,  is  it  ? 
Then  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  if  he  dis 
approves.  Well,  well,  my  dear  little 
friend,  you  shall  have  your  way.  I  won't 
read  any  more  of  those  verses,  since  you 
do  insist  ;  I  won't,  indeed.  Come  and 
be  friends  !  How  well  he  looks  ;  what  a 
beautiful  Dachshund  he  is  !  But  you 
don't  care  for  him,  I  suppose. 

She.  Care  for  him  !  I  adore  him.  I 
don't  think  life  would  be  worth  having 
without  him.  You  are  a  perfect  blessing, 
are  you  not,  dear  little  Fritzzie.  I  only 


LATER  READINGS  15 

wish  men  were  half  as  good,  and  half  as 
honest  and  loyal  and  unselfish. 

He.  Oh,  men  !  They  are  the  most  con 
temptible  things.  Don't  talk  of  men. 
Life  would  be  so  much  better  without 
them,  would  n't  it,  Fritz  ?  Only  women 
are  adorable,  and  I  don't  know  what  we 
should  do  without  them,  particularly 
when  they  do  us  the  favor  to  come  and 
sit  on  a  mossy  bank  beside  us  and  listen 
to  our  verses. 

She.  Did  you  ever  have  dogs  of  your 
own  ?  If  you  did,  you  know  what  a  gap 
they  fill  in  one's  life  ;  how  beyond  all 
words  they  are  loyal  in  their  friendships. 
One  may  entrust  to  them  one's  secret 
thoughts,  and  they  never  gossip  and  re 
port  and  talk  scandal.  One  at  least  may 
be  sure  of  one's  dog,  if  not  of  one's 
human  friends.  Dogs  have  no  ifs  and 
buts  in  their  love.  There  is  no  one  who 
believes  that  I  am  all  perfection  as  Fritz 
does.  He  forgives  me  for  all  my  way 
wardness,  for  all  my  injustice  to  him, 
sympathizes  with  me  in  all  my  moods  and 
variations  of  temper,  is  never  angry  or 
cross  to  me,  but  always  kind  and  humble 
and  faithful  in  his  love,  whatever  hap- 


16          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

pens.  Are  n't  you,  you  dear  little  Fritz  ? 
Just  look  at  those  eyes  of  his. 

He.  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  all  that  you 
say.  I  had  a  little  Dachshund  once  my 
self  who  was  very  like  him,  and  who  was 
all  that  you  say  of  Fritz.  Poor  little 
thing  !  he  died  in  my  arms. 

She.  Did  you  ever  write  any  verses 
about  him  ?  If  so,  pray  let  me  hear 
them. 

He.  Yes,  I  wrote  a  few  ineffectual 
lines,  for  honestly,  to  confess  the  truth,  I 
deeply  mourned  his  loss.  I  did  all  that 
I  could  for  him,  but  it  was  useless,  and  as 
I  said,  he  died  in  my  arms.  Still,  I  can 
never  forget  the  fond,  beseeching  expres 
sion  of  his  eyes  as  he  looked  up  to  me, 
trustingly  as  we  to  an  uncomprehended 
power  above,  believing  that  I  could,  if  I 
only  chose,  cure  him  of  his  sufferings  and 
make  him  well  by  a  word,  and  I  all  the 
while  so  utterly  helpless  to  assuage  his 
pain  and  to  justify  his  faith.  I  often  ask 
myself  the  unanswerable  question,  what 
dogs  imagine  us  to  be,  what  kind  of  a 
superior  power  we  seem  to  them  ;  and, 
on  the  whole,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
to  them  we  seem  to  be  some  all-powerful 


LATER  READINGS  17 

and  extraordinary  kind  of  dog,  with  fac 
ulties  beyond  their  understanding,  but 
still  dogs,  wonderful  and  mysterious  in 
all  they  are  and  do.  At  all  events,  that 
is  what  we  mortals,  in  our  ignorance,  do 
with  the  Infinite  power  above  us,  giving 
to  God  the  sublimed  characteristics  of 
man,  physically  as  well  as  spiritually. 
If  we  confess  the  truth,  we  represent  him 
to  our  senses  as  a  venerable,  long-bearded, 
superhuman  man,  whose  laws  and  decrees 
may  be  swayed  and  altered  by  prayers. 
And  I  am  afraid  those  prayers  are  often 
as  unintelligible  as  the  barking  and 
whining  of  dogs  is  to  us,  and  as  unrea 
sonable,  too,  in  their  vague  demands.  I 
could  not  help  asking  myself,  as  I  held 
my  poor  little  dying  dog  in  my  arms, 
whether  our  hope  and  faith  in  the  Higher 
Power,  as  we  shape  that  power  to  our 
selves,  was  as  unfounded  as  his  was  in  me. 

She.  But  still  we  must  cling  to  that 
faith,  for  otherwise  how  could  we  bear 
the  ills  and  sorrows  of  this  life  ? 

He.  As  poor  little  Fritz  did,  I  sup 
pose. 

She.  No  ;  he  never  asked  himself  the 
questions  which  torment  our  human  spir- 


18  A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

its  continually.  His  life's  moment  satis 
fied  him.  He  looked  forward  to  no  future 
beyond.  But  do  not  let  us  enter  into 
these  unsolvable  problems.  Rather,  read 
me  what  you  wrote  about  him. 

He.  I  had  quite  forgotten  that  I  ever 
wrote  these  lines  until  the  other  day  a 
friend  to  whom  I  had  given  them,  and 
who  was  as  great  a  lover  of  dogs  as  you, 
recalled  them  to  me,  and  sent  me  a  copy 
of  them,  and  as  you  wish  to  hear  them, 
here  they  are.  1  am  afraid  they  ask 
questions  which  neither  of  us  can  answer. 

All  this  long  night  thy  sufferings  I  have 
seen, 

Thy  moans  of  pain  have  heard,  thy  pant 
ing  breath  ; 

Thy  dim  eyes  asking  what  I  could  not 
give, 

But  humbly  trustful  in  thy  dumb,  fond 
faith. 

What  hadst  thou  done  that  thou  should 

suffer  thus  ? 

Thy  life  was  gentle,  kind,  affectionate, 
Unselfish,  innocent.     Did  this  avail 
To  avert  from  thee  this  cruel  stroke  of 

fate? 


LATER  READINGS  19 

Nothing  !  and  sadly  as  I  gaze  at  thee, 
All  impotent  to  give  thoe  help,  I  cry, 
"  Why  was  this  suffering  given  thee  to 

bear?" 
Ah,  vain  the  question  !   There  is  no  reply. 

Then  I  recall  thy  little  sportive  ways, 
Thy  leaps  and  barks  of  joy,  thy  trusting 

nose 

Thrust  in  my  hand,  thy  happiness  to  lie 
Under  my  arm,  and  pressed  against  me 

close. 

Grateful  for  everything,  a  smile,  a  nod, 
A    kindly    word  —  humble,    submissive, 

true, 

Quick  to  forget  injustice,  blows,  reproof, 
And  seeking  but  thy  master's  will  to  do. 

Where  on  this  earth  among  our  human 

kind 

Is  to  be  found  such  pure,  unselfish  love  ? 
Such  patience  under  wrongs,  such  faith, 

that  looks 
For  no  reward  hereafter,  or  above. 

If  such  there  be,  I  know  it  not,  for  all 
Even  of  the  best  their  earthly  duties  do 


20          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

In  the  great   hope,  beyond  this  passing 

world, 
That  our  poor  little  servant  never  knew. 

Ah,  shall  we  say,  in  pride  of  heart  and 

brain, 

"  This  is  the  end  of  all,  to  such  as  he," 
While  Death  for  us  but  opens  the  dark 

gate 
Through  which  we  pass  to  Immortality  ? 

She.    Thank  you.     Yes,  that  is  all  true. 

He.  It  was  all  true  of  little  Fritz. 
That  is  all  that  I  can  say.  I  did  honestly 
mourn  for  that  little  thing,  though,  to  con 
fess  the  truth,  I  am  not  an  universal  lover 
of  dogs,  as  I  believe  you  are.  One's  own 
dog  is  one  thing,  but  another  person's  dog 
is  but  too  often  (don't  frown  at  me)  a 
mere  nuisance,  and  all  the  more  because 
the  owner  finds  something  wonderful  in 
all  it  does.  The  barking  of  my  own  dog 
is  not  always  a  pure  satisfaction,  but  the 
barking  of  another  person's  dog  sets  my 
nerves  all  ajar.  In  this  I  at  least  resem 
ble  Goethe,  if  in  nothing  else,  and  I  often 
recall  his  lines  on  the  subject. 

She.   His  lines  !     What  are  they  ? 


LATER  READINGS 

He.   Manche  Tone  sind  mir  verdriiss, 

doch  bleibet  am  meisten 
Hundegebell     mir     verhasst,  — 
klaffend  zerreist  es  mein  Ohr. 

She.  Did  Goethe  write  that?  That 
lowers  him  very  much  in  my  opinion. 

He.  Well,  you  know  one  can't  help 
one's  nerves.  They  get  the  better  of 
us,  sometimes,  you  must  admit,  and  he 
may,  for  all  I  know,  have  been  a  lover 
of  dogs,  or  at  least  of  some  particular 
dog,  despite  his  lines,  which  perhaps  were 
written  in  a  moment  of  irritated  despera 
tion.  He  may  have  written  them  after 
some  such  call  as  I  made  the  other  day 
on  a  lady,  or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say, 
a  visit  I  paid,  for  we  pay  visits  as  we  do 
debts  and  bills.  But  no  !  Now  that  I 
think  of  it,  though  in  this  little  poem,  or 
Elegy  as  he  calls  it,  he  makes  a  sentimen 
tal  exception  in  favor  of  one  special  dog 
belonging  to  his  "  madchen,"  whose  bark 
heralded  her  approach,  still  that  story 
about  the  poodle  and  "  The  Dog  of  Mon- 
targis  "  seems  to  prove  that  he  had  a  gen 
eral  aversion,  or  at  least  a  strong  objec 
tion,  to  dogs. 

She.  What  story  ?  I  never  heard  it. 
Please  tell  me. 


22          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

He.  It  was  this.  Goethe,  you  know,  was 
at  one  time  the  director  of  the  Weimar 
Theatre,  and  the  Grand  Duke  was  anxious 
that  a  famous  actor  of  the  day,  named 
Karstein,  should  be  requested  to  perform 
there  the  well-known  melodrama  entitled 
"  The  Dog  of  Montargis,"  in  which  a  poo 
dle  is  brought  upon  the  stage  and  plays 
a  silent  but  necessary  role  in  the  piece. 
But  Goethe  would  not  hear  of  this. 
Strongly  as  the  Grand  Duke  urged  it, 
Goethe  would  not  yield,  and  after  the 
first  rehearsal  he  sent  in  his  resignation, 
saying  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
a  theatre  in  which  a  dog  was  allowed  to 
appear.  Nor  could  he  be  induced  to  al 
ter  this  determination,  and  resume  his  po 
sition  as  director. 

She.  But  what  harm  did  the  poor  dog 
do? 

He.  He  not  only  did  no  harm,  but  the 
play  could  not  be  performed  without  him. 
It  was  not,  however,  to  the  play  itself, 
poor  as  it  may  have  been,  that  Goethe  ob 
jected,  but  solely  to  the  introduction  of 
the  dog. 

She.  You  were  beginning  to  tell  me  a 
story  about  a  call  you  made  on  a  dog- 
loving  friend. 


LATER  READINGS  23 

He.  Oh,  there  is  no  story,  it  was  only  an 
experience  which  Goethe's  lines  recalled 
to  me.  As  I  entered  the  room,  four  dogs 
sprang  at  me,  yelling  and  barking  and 
making  (excuse  the  term)  an  infernal  up 
roar.  Besides  being  somewhat  suspi 
cious  as  to  their  intentions  in  regard  to 
my  legs  and  trousers,  my  brain  was  en 
tirely  confused  by  this  reception,  —  by 
this  expression  of  joy  (for  so  she  termed 
it)  at  again  seeing  me.  "Dear  little 
things,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  glad  they 
are  to  see  you  !  "  /  only  wished  they  had 
not  been  so  glad,  or  had  been  able  to 
find  some  pleasanter  way  to  exhibit  their 
delight.  Stumbling  along  with  rather 
hesitating  footsteps,  however,  I  found  a 
seat  at  last,  and  tried  to  say  something, 
but  all  our  conversation  was  punctuated 
by  constant  and  reiterated  bursts  of 
barking,  which  even  she  found  it  impos 
sible  to  repress.  Not  that  she  made  great 
endeavors  to  stop  the  horrid  noise ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  seemed  rather  to  amuse  her, 
and  at  intervals  she  would  say,  smiling 
down  upon  the  dogs  and  patting  their 
heads  :  "  No,  darling,  no  !  You  must  not, 
really.  It 's  very  charming,  all  you  say, 


24          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

but  we  are  talking  now,  dear  ! "  Are  we, 
indeed  ?  I  kept  asking  myself.  What  is 
she  saying  ?  What  am  I  saying  ?  I  don't 
hear  anything  but  what  the  dogs  are  say 
ing,  and  what  that  is  I  neither  understand 
nor  appreciate.  So,  after  a  half  hour  of 
this,  I  made  my  bow,  shook  hands  ner 
vously,  smiled  as  far  as  I  was  capable 
of  smiling,  and  came  away,  to  confess  the 
truth,  with  a  somewhat  perturbed  temper. 

She.  Yes,  I  admit  that  was  annoying. 
But  human  beings  very  often  annoy  us 
quite  as  much. 

He.  Very  true,  but  not  exactly  in  the 
same  way,  and  then  we  do  not  quite  love 
them  for  it. 

She.  We  ought  to  love  them,  if  we 
were  real  Christians,  and  to  forgive  them, 
too,  for  they  are  our  enemies,  and  de- 
spitefully  use  us. 

He.  Oh  !  forgiving  is  easy  enough,  but 
loving  is  not  so  easy  ;  nor  in  fact  is  hat 
ing  —  I  mean,  really  hating.  There  is  a 
long  step  from  dislike,  or  the  negative  of 
like  and  the  positive  of  hate.  It  requires 
so  much  energy  of  mind  and  purpose 
really  to  hate.  There  are  very  few  per 
sons  capable  of  being  what  Dr.  Johnson 


LATER  READINGS  25 

called  "good  haters."  But  haters  are 
not  generally  very  interesting  creatures, 
whereas  lovers  are  most  amusing  to  out 
siders  ;  and  though  you  refused  to  hear 
the  verses  I  began  about  two  of  these 
lovers,  I  am  sure  if  you  had  allowed  me 
to  read  them,  you  would  have  smiled. 
They  are  not,  I  admit,  purely  Greek,  but 
they  are  at  least  simple,  natural,  and 
ingenuous. 

She.  Greek?  I  should  think  not,  judg 
ing  from  the  beginning.  Parisian,  per 
haps,  but  Greek  !  !  ! 

He.  She  was  so  provokingly  lovely, 
you  see,  with  all  those  diamonds,  and 
that  quaintly  becoming  dress,  and  that 
wonderful  lace,  and  all.  But  perhaps 
you  would  have  insisted  on  hearing  the 
entire  poem  if  you  had  known  who  she 
was. 

She.  Who  she  was  !  I  know  perfectly 
well  without  your  telling.  She  was  no 
body.  She  was  a  mere  fiction. 

He.  No  !  She  was  the  most  beautiful 
of  women.  Everybody  admired  her. 
She  was  so  full  of  wit  and  talent  and 
kindness  and  sweetness  and  spirit,  and, 
what  is  best  of  all,  of  charm,  which  means 
everything. 


26  A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Really  !  And  who  was  this  para 
gon? 

He.  Your  great  -  great  -  grandmother, 
and  she  was  all  that  I  say.  Indeed, 
whose  great-grandmother  was  not  ?  I 
never  heard  any  one  speak  of  her  great- 
great-grandmother,  who  does  not  vehe 
mently  insist  that  she  was  a  celebrated 
beauty,  and  admired  by  all.  Did  you  ? 

She.  If  I  answer  honestly,  I  never 
did. 

He.  Mine  was,  I  know,  a  perfect 
beauty.  She  exactly  corresponded  to  the 
description  one  of  my  young  New  Eng 
land  friends  gave  me  of  Effie,  or  Nannie, 
or  Nellie,  or  Minnie  —  I  don't  remember 
which.  When  I  asked  her  what  sort  of 
a  girl  Minnie  or  Nannie  was,  she  ex 
claimed,  with  a  burst  of  enthusiasm, 
"  Why,  she  's  perfectly  sweet  and  lovely, 
just  as  sweet  and  lovely  as  she  can  be 
(with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  be).  She  's 
simply  splendid  !  She  's  gorgeous  !  I 
never  did,  I  give  my  word,  I  never  did  in 
all  my  life  see  anything  even  half  so 
fascinating  and  exquisite,"  and  my  friend 
pronounced  this  last  word  accentuating 
strongly  the  second  syllable. 


LATER  READINGS  27 

She.  That  describes  my  ancestress  in 
her  youth  exactly.  She  was  simply  ex- 
quisite. 

He.  We  both  had  the  loveliest  of 
great-great-grandm others.  Indeed,  the 
whole  family  without  exception  were  re 
markable  for  something  or  other,  —  for 
talent,  for  spirit,  for  beauty,  for  size,  for 
strength,  for  abundance  of  hair.  Every 
great-great-grandmother,  when  she  let 
down  her  profusion  of  golden  or  brown 
or  jet-black  hair,  could  walk  upon  it,  and 
it  always  curled  or  waved. 

She.  Yes  !  I  never  heard  of  a  great- 
great-grandmother,  and  scarcely  ever  of 
a  great-grandmother,  who  had  straight 
hair.  The  further  they  are  removed 
from  us  the  more  beautiful,  rarely  beau 
tiful,  they  are.  One's  great-great-uncles 
were  only  noble,  fine-looking  men,  and 
some  were  bald,  but  one's  great-great- 
grandmothers  !  Ah,  that  is  a  different 
case.  But  if,  as  you  say,  that  poem  was 
written  about  her,  and  of  course  I  shall 
not  be  so  impolite  as  to  question  your 
statement,  I  should  like  to  know  what 
has  become  of  those  diamonds  and  that 
lace.  Who  has  got  them  ? 


28          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

He.   You  have. 

She.   I  have  ?  and  where  are  they  ? 

He.  In  that  chest  in  the  attic,  put 
away  with  all  the  precious  things  she  left. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  never 
looked  into  it  and  examined  it  ?  I 
thought  curiosity  was  one  of  the  features 
of  a  woman's  character.  You  must  know 
they  are  there.  That  old  chest,  you  know, 
with  the  brass  hoops,  in  the  northeast  cor 
ner  of  the  attic. 

She.  Oh  !  I  'in  so  much  obliged  to  you. 
I  have  often  wondered  where  the  dia 
mond  necklace  that  I  ought  to  have  was. 
I  will  look  into  the  matter  immediately, 
—  that  is,  as  soon  as  I  return  home. 
What  I  do  know  is  that  this  interesting 
fact  has  been  concealed  from  me,  and  I 
think  it  is  shameful.  Can't  you  tell  me 
something  more  about  my  family,  —  I 
mean  those  that  have  gone  ? 

He.  Oh,  yes,  certainly  ;  but  you  must 
have  heard  of  that  pathetic  little  inci 
dent  that  happened  centuries  ago  to  your 
great-grandfather's  first  wife.  She  was 
a  charming  little  creature  ;  she  lived 
only  a  year  or  two  after  her  marriage, 
and  then  died  very  suddenly.  This  is 


LATER  READINGS  29 

the  account  I  received  from  a  friend  who 
happened  to  be  staying  with  her  at  the 
time,  and  accidentally,  I  suppose,  it  fell 
into  rhyme  :  — 

She  was  gazing  into  her  mirror 

And  returning  her  own  sweet  smiles, 

And  half  persuading  and  charming  herself 
With  her  pretty,  innocent  wiles. 

When  behind  her  she  saw  Death's  shadow 

Silent  and  cold  and  blank, 
And  closing   her   eyes,   with   a   startled 
shriek, 

Into  his  arms  she  sank. 

She.  Oh,  what  a  horrible  idea !  It 
will  haunt  me  whenever  I  look  into  the 
mirror.  I  am  sorry  you  read  it. 

He.  Things  will  happen  so,  you  know. 
Death  is  always  lying  in  lurk  for  us. 
Whom  the  gods  love,  it  is  said,  die  young; 
and  our  friend  was  young,  and  never 
knew  the  cares  and  struggles  and  pains 
that  accompany  even  the  happiest  life. 
Better  to  go  so,  than  to  outlive  one's  self 
and  one's  youth,  and  to  totter  down  the 
vale  of  old  age,  accompanied  by  sad  re- 


30          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

membrances  and  abandoned  by  hope,  — 
of  anything  in  this  world,  at  least ;  all  the 
gladness  of  life,  if  not  utterly  gone,  over 
shadowed,  and  our  happiest  memories 
ending  in  sighs. 

She.  Oh,  no  !  no !  not  always.  Old 
age  is  sometimes  so  charming,  when  the 
agitations  of  life  are  over,  as  it  sits  peace 
ful  and  serene  with  a  gentle  smile  on  its 
face,  brooding  pleasantly  over  the  past, 
with  gentle  memories,  and  if  not  in  utter 
satisfaction,  at  least  in  calm  content.  The 
old  loves  never  entirely  die,  and  the  life 
afar  off  behind  us  has  a  gleam  and  a 
color  that  nothing  can  take  away;  like  the 
lovely  and  delicate  distances  in  the  land 
scape,  which  are  perhaps  really,  and  when 
we  are  near  them,  rude  and  hard  roads 
through  an  uninteresting  country,  but  illu 
minated  by  the  sun's  last  rays  seem  in 
the  dying  light  to  be  like  fairyland.  Old 
Donne  was  right  when  he  said,  — 

"  No  spring  nor  summer's  beauty  hath 

such  grace 
As  I  have  seen  on  one  autumnal  face." 

He.   How  do  you  know  ?    Not  by  expe- 


LATER  READINGS  31 

rience,  certainly.  That  is  the  way  old 
age  in  its  best  phase  looks  to  us  ;  but  to 
old  age  itself,  how  does  it  look  ?  For  in 
stance,  — 

To  crawl  between  earth  and  heaven 

A  poor  old  broken  thing  ; 
To  say  of  all  joys,  I  have  known  them, 

And  they  all  have  taken  wing,  — 
'T  is  worse  than  vain  to  recall  them, 

Recalling  them  is  but  pain, 
What  is  gone  is  gone,  and  no  wishing 

Will  restore  it  to  us  again,  — 

This  is  terribly  sad.     I  know  it, 

But  youth  had  its  trials,  too, 
Vain  longings,  wild  wishes,  for  fruit  and 
flowers 

That  never  on  life's  tree  grew. 
Even  love  at  its  best  had  its  shadows, 

Ambition  fell  dead,  half-way  ; 
We  hit  our  young  feet  and  we  stumbled, 

And  hurt  ourselves  even  in  play. 

Old  age  has  at  least  one  solace 

That  wild  youth  never  had  : 
Calm,  quiet,  peace,  no  vain  longings, 

But  memories  sweet  and  glad. 


32          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

The  tempests  of  passion  are  over, 
And  if  the  desires  that  we  knew 

Have  vanished  ;  so,  also,  have  vanished 
Its  disappointments,  too. 

What   ask   you,   then?      What   is   bet 
ter 

Than  simple,  plain  content  ? 
'T  is  a  staid  old  matron  —  I  know  it  — 

Not  the  maiden  so  turbulent, 
So  full  of  wild  graces  and  fancies, 

The  torment  and  joy  of  my  life  ; 
But  she  keeps  my  household  tidy 

With  never  a  word  of  strife. 

She.  Ah,  yes  ;  that 's  an  old  man's  view 
of  it. 

He.  Yes  ;  but  I  have  the  misfortune 
of  being  only  a  man. 

She.  But  not  an  old  one  yet. 

He.  Oh,  yes,  old  enough  ;  everybody 
is  old  enough  after  he  is  thirty.  Some 
of  the  oldest  fellows  I  know  are  only 
about  twenty-five.  One  would  think,  to 
see  them,  that  they  had  known  all  the 
experiences  of  life.  There  are  blighted 
beings  in  abundance  of  about  that  age, 
—  Byronic  creatures,  with  their  collars 


LATER  READINGS  33 

clown  and  their  necks  open,  who  moan 
over  themselves  and  their  fate,  to  whom 
the  world  is  but  ashes  and  dust  —  and  all 
because  Nannie  did  not  smile.  Those 
are  the  old  young  fellows  who  are  amus 
ing  to  all  the  world  but  themselves.  But 
the  old  fellows  who  play  at  being  young 
are  perhaps  quite  as  amusing,  who  brush 
up  the  side  locks  of  their  thin  hair  and 
endeavor  to  conceal  the  bare  plains  of  — 
let  us  call  it  the  upper  forehead,  and  who 
compliment  so,  and  bow  with  such  grace, 
and  are  so  aristocratic  and  high-toned  in 
all  their  ways.  When  it  comes  to  the 
really  old  fellows,  who  acknowledge  their 
years,  and  are  even  ready  to  brag  of 
them,  —  ah  !  then  the  case  is  different. 
It  is  difficult  to  grow  old  gracefully,  to 
accept  quietly  and  with  dignity  the  rav 
ages  of  time,  to  make  no  pretenses  either 
one  way  or  another,  and  to  enjoy  what 
remains  of  life.  There  is  nothing  that 
makes  us  feel  so  old  as  suddenly,  after 
long  years  of  separation,  to  meet  one  of 
the  friends  of  our  youth  and  prime,  — 
one  of  the  reigning  belles  as  they  were 
called  ;  or  one  of  the  beauties  with  whom 
we  used  to  flirt ;  or  an  old  schoolmate 


34          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

with  whom  we  once  played,  and  whom 
we  have  lost  sight  of  since,  the  old  girl 
or  boy-look  gone  from  their  faces  and 
figures,  and  in  their  place,  hollow  cheeks 
and  wrinkled  brows,  made  by  the  claws 
of  Time. 

She.  And  then,  sad  thought,  there 
conies  to  some, 

"  The  last  sad  scene  of  all 
That   ends  this  strange  eventful   his 
tory, 

In  second  childishness  and  mere  obli 
vion, 

Sans  teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans 
everything." 

The  good  Lord  preserve  us  from  that  ! 

He.  I  don't  know  that  when  old  age 
comes  to  such  a  pass,  it  is  quite  un 
happy.  It  is  sad  to  look  at,  but  it  does 
not  feel  or  know  enough  to  be  sad  in  it 
self.  It  has  no  special  desires,  or  hopes, 
or  regrets,  so  long  as  it  does  not  suffer 
bodily.  What  is  worse  to  bear  is  old 
age  with  gout,  and  rheumatism,  and 
pains,  and  desires  impossible  to  satisfy, 
and  a  consciousness  of  its  own  helpless 


LATER  READINGS  35 

condition.  But  let  us  not  think  of  that. 
When  joy  has  gone,  and  we  remember 
more  than  we  hope,  and  look  back  with 
a  deep  sigh  of  regret  to  what  has  gone, 
we  are  all  of  us  old,  whatever  years  we 
number.  So  long  as  we  take  delight  in 
life,  we  are  young  ;  but  the  sad  and 
weary  heart  is  always  old. 

The  torrent  whirls  over  rock  and  stone, 

Sparkling  and  never  weary. 
As  I  watch  it  alone,  —  ah  !  so  alone, 

With  a  heart  that  is  sad  and  dreary, 
So  sad  and  sore  for  what  is  no  more 

And  will  never  know  returning, 
For  the  joy  that  has  fled,  for  the  hope 
that  is  dead, 

For  the  light  that  no  longer  is  burn 
ing. 

I  would  that  this  day  had  passed  away 

With  its  toil  and  pain  and  striving, 
And  that  I  was  at  rest  'neath  the  earth's 

cold  breast,  — 

For  what  is  the  use  of  living  ? 
For  what  are  our  joys  and  our  loves  and 

our  hopes 
But  bubbles  on  Time's  swift  river, 


36          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

That  a  moment  gleam  on  its  hurrying 

stream, 
And  then  burst,  and  are  gone  forever. 

She.  Yes,  yes  ;  the  world  is  what  we 
make  it,  —  bright  and  sunny,  dark  and 
gloomy,  passionate,  violent,  or  calm  and 
serene,  as  we  happen  at  the  moment  to 
be.  Love  and  joy  enchant  everything. 
'T  is  the  spirit  in  which  we  look  at  things 
which  gives  them  their  color. 

He.  Yes.  Tonio,  who  was  forty  years 
of  age,  walked  by  that  same  place  on  the 
evening  of  that  same  day,  and  sat  down 
on  the  same  knoll  and  dreamed. 

She.  And  what  did  he  dream  ? 

He.  Well,  something  like  this,  for  look 
ing  back  even  at  the  lost  and  gone  is  not 
\N  always  sad  :  — 

Nina,  do  you  those  days  remember 
When,  in  the  amber  moonlight's  glow, 

Those  blissful  evenings  of  September, 
Beneath  these  hawthorn  bushes  low 
We  sat,  —  some  twenty  years  ago  ? 

Ah  !  then  we  swore  to  love  forever, 
In  voices  passionate  and  low  ; 


LATER  READINGS  37 

And  Fate  we  dared  our  hearts  to  sever, 
For  we  were  young,   and  loved,  you 

know,  — 
But  that  was  twenty  years  ago. 

What  pledges  then  to  life  were  given, 
The  crickets  listening  below  ; 

The  great  moon  shining  up  in  heaven 
While  vow  on  vow  we  squandered  so, 
With  faith  of  twenty  years  ago. 

But  love  and  youth  and  fame  and  glory, 
So  real  then  in  all  their  glow, 

Are  now  a  dim-remembered  story 
Of  some  divine  and  dreamlike  show 
That  passed  us  twenty  years  ago. 

And  half  a  fact,  and  half  ideal, 

O'er  memory's  magic  glass  you  go, 

And  o'er  your  head,  but  scarcely  real, 
There  shines  a  faint  auroral  glow,  — 
The  love  of  twenty  years  ago. 

She.  False,  fickle,  and  poor-hearted 
creature  !  He  never  loved,  that  is  plain. 
Nina's  life  he  spoilt,  and  you  'd  better 
write  her  history.  It  is  sad  enough,  you 
know. 


38  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  No  !  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind. 
The  old  passionate  fervor  of  love  died 
away  in  his  heart,  and  the  old  life  in 
hers,  but  there  survived  a  warm  affec 
tion,  a  tender  feeling,  a  peaceful  senti 
ment,  which  lasted  till  death.  And  in 
his  old  age,  he  dedicated  to  her  some 
verses,  in  which  he  strove,  however  inade 
quately,  to  express  his  feelings.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  them  ?  I  have  them, 
I  think,  here  in  my  portfolio.  Yes,  here 
they  are. 

She.  Do  read  them. 
He. 
Since  last  we  met,  how  many  a  long,  long 

year 
Hath  flown  away  with  ne'er  returning 

flight. 
And   now  your  face  brings  back   those 

days  so  dear 
That  glow  in  memory  with  unfading 

light. 
We  both  are  changed.    Still  in  your  face 

I  see 
That   same  sweet   smile,  those  same 

sweet  tones  I  hear, 

Those  same  sweet  ways  that  so  enchanted 
me, 


LATER  READINGS  39 

When  we  were  young  and  glad,  with 
out  a  fear. 

"Ah  me!"  you  say,  "changed,  changed 

indeed,  old  friend, 

Nothing  is  now  as  once  it  used  to  be." 
No  ;  age  to  you  hath  had  the  power  to 

lend 

An  added  grace  to  those  of  memory, 
A  grace    that   only    time   and   age   can 

bring, 

A  twilight  grace  that  noon  nor  morn 
ing  knows, 

A  tenderer  charm,  that  comes  when  even 
ing's  wing 

Its  softening  shade  across  all  nature 
throws. 

With   laughter  once   we   greeted  every 

day, 
And  now  we   greet   it  with   a   silent 

sigh; 
Yes  ;   we    were  once   more   thoughtless, 

glad,  and  gay, 
But  were   we   happier  in   those   days 

gone  by  ? 
Through  memory's  mists,  half  real  and 

half  dream, 


40          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Seem   they  not   sweeter  than   in  fact 

they  were  ? 
As  the  steep  cliffs  of   distant  mountains 

seen, 
Their  rude  facts  veiled  in  mysteries  of 

air. 

^  Our   hopes    are    fewer,  but   are   calmer 

far; 
We  ask  for  less,  but  we  have  gained 

content  — 

No  wild,  high  dreams  our  peaceful  be 
ing  jar, 

Life  is  a  simpler  plain,  with  less  ex 
tent. 
We    know   at    last    that    youth's    rash 

dreams  were  vain, 
And  o'er  our  lesser  round  we  peaceful 

go, 
Taking  what  comes,  and  not  with  eager 

strain 

Striving  for  what  life  gives  to  none  be 
low.  / 

What  though  your  hair  is  white  —  I  like 

it  so  ! 

Softer   it   seems,   more   delicate,   and 
rhymes 


LATER  READINGS  41 

More  truly  to  the  tender  soul  I  know 
Than  those  dark  curls  you  wore  in  the 

old  times. 
Nay  !  do  not  smile  and  shake  your  head, 

dear  friend  ! 
'T  is   really   so  —  I  simply  speak  the 

truth. 

Too  old  for  flattery  ?     Ah  !  but  I  pre 
tend 

Old  age   can  be   even    lovelier  than 
youth. 

You  are  bound  up  with  all  those  olden 

days, 
Their  joys   and  pains,    their   sorrows, 

cares,  and  dreams, 
And   o'er    your   head    a    silent    aureole 

plays, 
Lit    by   the    light    of    far    memorial 

gleams. 
We  have  grown   old   together;    we  can 

hear 

Through  far-off  time  the  bells  of  mem 
ory  ring, 
Some  sadly  sweet,  some  joyous  loud  and 

clear, 

That  of  the  past  in  sweet  accordance 
sing. 


42          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Yes  !  If  he  really  wrote  those 
lines  as  you  say  he  did,  I  think  I  should 
have  liked  him  better  as  aii  old  man 
than  as  a  young  or  middle-aged  man. 
Time  does  not  seem  to  have  robbed  his 
autumn  fields  of  all  the  flowers  of  his 
young  romance.  There  were  still  some 
scarlet  poppies  growing  amid  his  ripe 
corn. 

He.  .Old  age  can  be  charming  when  it 
is  honestly  accepted  by  the  owner.  It 
has  not  so  much  trumpet  and  brass  band 
as  youth;  but  at  twilight  it  can  draw 
sweet  pathetic  tones  out  of  the  old  harp 
or  spinnet,  that  are  sometimes  very  touch- 
ing.\  Did  you  ever  read  Cicero's  treatise, 
De  Senectute  ?  There  are  some  charm 
ing  passages  in  it  that  I  think  would  de 
light  you  ;  and  the  sentiment  throughout 
is  most  interesting,  as  well  as  its  argu 
ments  for  a  future  life,  specially  as  coming 
from  one  to  whom  the  Christian  religion 
was  unknown.  One  passage  particularly 
struck  me  the  other  day  as  I  was  reading 
it  ;  it  is  in  the  last  chapter,  where  he 
speaks  of  looking  forward  to  a  future  life 
where  he  should  meet  all  the  great  and 
good  who  have  gone  before  him,  and  says 


LATER  READINGS  43 

that  if  any  God  should  offer  to  make  him 
young  again,  he  would  refuse  the  offer 
as  having  no  charm  for  him. 

She.  Ay,  but  that,  you  know,  was  the 
offer  that  Mephistopheles  made  to  Faust, 
and  to  accept  which,  old  as  he  was,  and 
philosopher  as  he  was,  he  gladly  aban 
doned  all  his  studies,  and  all  his  re 
searches  in  science.  You  see  that  lie  dif 
fered  from  Cicero. 

He.  Yes,  I  know  he  did.  But  in  my 
opinion  Cicero  had  the  right  of  it.  I 
never  fully  appreciated  Goethe's  scheme 
of  the  first  part  of  Faust.  As  for  the 
second  part,  it  is  not  only  inconsecutive, 
undeveloped,  and  almost,  if  not  quite,  un 
intelligible  in  its  design  and  execution  to 
all  the  world,  but  I  fear  even  to  the  poet 
himself,  for  he  seems  throughout  it  to  be 
wandering  about  in  a  mist,  and  not  quite 
to  understand  and  know  his  own  way. 

She.  But  what  fault  do  you  find  with 
the  first  part  ?  It  always  seemed  to  me 
most  admirable  and  most  interesting,  and 
the  work  of  a  great  genius. 

He.  Simply  this  :  it  seems  to  me  that 
to  an  old  philosopher,  whose  life  had  been 
given  to  science,  to  alchemy,  to  the  most 


44          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

serious  researches  into  life,  in  the  hope 
to  solve  the  secret  which  underlies  all 
things,  the  mere  offer  of  youth  would 
have  been  but  a  poor  and  insufficient 
temptation  to  induce  him  to  abandon  all 
his  studies  and  sacrifice  all  his  hopes  for 
the  future.  To  sell  one's  soul  merely  to 
be  young  again,  and  to  sell  it  for  such  a 
boon,  does  not,  to  my  mind,  accord  with 
the  character  of  Faust  as  it  is  drawn  in 
the  prologue  ;  and  to  such  a  devil  as 
Mephistopheles  is  represented  to  be,  a 
mocking,  sneering,  grinning  fiend,  with 
his  silly  cock's  plumes,  seems  to  make 
the  discord  still  greater.  Had  the  devil 
offered  to  teach  him  the  infinite  secret, 
to  open  to  him  the  Book  of  Knowledge 
and  interpret  the  laws  of  the  universe, 
however  futile  and  deceptive  might  be 
his  promise,  I  can  understand  the  lure 
and  the  reward.  But  simply  to  make 
him  young  again  seems  to  me  to  be  no 
adequate  bribe.  And,  besides,  is  it  to  be 
supposed  that  Faust,  the  philosopher  and 
alchemist,  would  have  been  for  a  moment 
satisfied,  or  even  aroused,  by  the  silly 
pranks  of  Mephistopheles  ;  for  what,  in 
fact,  did  that  sneering  spirit  do  for  Faust 


LATER  READINGS  45 

to  compensate  him  for  the  loss  of  his  soul  ? 
He  introduced  him  to  Auerbach's  cellar, 
where  he  made  jets  of  wine  spring  from 
the  table.  Then  he  carried  him  to  the 
witches'  company  on  the  Brocken,  who 
had  nothing  to  tell  him,  and  then  pre 
sented  him  to  a  young  peasant  girl, 
whom,  altogether  at  variance  with  all 
his  previous  character,  he  seduced  and 
ruined.  Is  it  possible  that  any  old  phi 
losopher  should  have  been  willing  to 
forego  all  the  longings  and  studies  of 
his  life  for  such  a  miserable  result  ?  No 
wonder  Faust  rebelled  at  times.  One 
would  think  that  any  reasonable  and  de 
cent  person  would  have  been  disgusted  at 
such  impotent  and  vulgar  results.  But 
this  philosopher,  despite  his  casual  rebel 
lions,  always  yielded  at  last  to  the  foolish 
persuasions  of  a  low-minded,  sneering 
spirit. 

She.  There  is  something,  I  admit,  in 
what  you  say.  I  never  thought  of  it  in  /  - 
that  way.  But  still,  you  must  allow  that 
all  men,  even  the  wisest,  are  waylaid  by 
the  evil  spirit,  that  sneers  at  all  that  is 
high  and  good,  and  does  seduce  them 
from  the  high  paths  into  low  and  base 


46  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

courses,  and  though  they  find  in  reality 
that  vice  does  not  pay,  they  still  adhere 
to  it.  You  remember  the  old  lines ,  — 

"  I  see  the  right,  and  I  approve  it  too, 
Condemn  the  wrong,  and  yet  the  wrong 
pursue." 

But  why  don't  you,  since  you  take  these 
views,  so  contrary  to  the  almost  univer 
sal  acceptance  of  this  great  poem  and 
play,  write  one  yourself  embodying  your 
own  conception  ? 

He.  Well,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  have 
written  a  few  verses  on  this  subject  in 
which,  while  accepting  the  original  char 
acter  of  Faust  as  the  philosopher,  I  have 
endeavored  in  my  small  way  to  embody 
what  I  suppose  his  answer  would  be  to 
such  propositions  and  from  such  a  spirit 
as  Goethe's  Mephistopheles.  I  suppose 
him  to  be  deeply  engaged  in  his  studies, 
when  the  sneering  spirit  makes  his  en 
trance  and  offers  him  his  panacea  of 
youth.  I  see  I  have  quoted  as  its  head 
ing  that  short  passage  from  Cicero  of 
which  I  spoke,  in  which  he  says,  — 

"  Si  quid  Deus  mihi  largiatur  ut  ex  hoc 
setate  repueriscam,  valde  recusem." 


LATER  READINGS  47 

No  !  sneering  tempter,  naught  from  you 

I  ask 
That  you  can  give.     You  promise  youth 

alone, 
And  its  seductive  joys.     I  know  them 

well, 
And     I     refuse     them,   even    had    you 

power 
To  give  them  back  to  me.     It  is  not 

youth, 
Though  that  was  sweet,  that  I  desire. 

Far  more  — 
(    'T  is  knowledge  that  I  crave,  —  the  power 

to  see 

Into  the  inner  world  of  life  and  things  ; 
Into  the  mystery  that  surrounds  us  all ; 
Into  the  future,  when  this  life  is  done  ; 
Why  we  are  here,  and  why  the  power 

above, 
Around,    in    everything  that  lives  and 

moves, 
Has  placed  us  here,  if  death  ends  all  at 

last. 

All  my  long  years'    exploring  I  have 

sought 

To  read  life's  riddle,  —  not  alone  in  man, 
In  all,  from  lowest  things  that  creep  the 

earth 


48          A  POETS'  PORTFOLIO 

To  man,  the  highest  here  we   see   and 

know  ; 
Have  sought  the  laws  that  rule  the  world 

of  things 

As  well  as  living,  moving  creatures  here  ; 
Sought  them  in  science,  alchemy,  books, 

art,  — 
In  every  way   that   seemed  to   promise 

light, 

Combining,  analyzing,  peering  close 
Into  the  parts  of  this  material  world 
To   seek   their   essence,  and   with  lifted 

eyes 
Holding   mute  converse  with  the  silent 

stars,  — 
Guessing  and  reasoning,  groping    after 

light, 
Fired  by  the  hope  that  I  at  last  might 

find 
Life's  secret  ;  and  now  here  you  capering 

come 
With  smirking  and  grimace,  to  offer  — 

what? 
The  boon  of  youth  ;    to  make  me  young 

again, 

To  gratify  man's  lower  passions  here  ! 
Wine  —  woman  —  all  the  human  senses 

crave, 


LATER  READINGS  49 

As  if  these  satisfied  the  soul's  desires. 
Fool  !  off  with  you  into  the  lower  world  ; 
Even  this  is  far  too  good  and  high  for 

you 
With  that  ridiculous  costume  and  cock's 

plume. 
Off  !  off  !  I  say.     Your  offers  tempt  me 

not. 

Tell  me  the  secret  of  the  life  beyond  ; 
Tell  me  the  secret  even  of  this  world  ; 
What  death  is,  and  what  life  is,  —  I  will 

hear. 
Tempt  fools,  that  is  your  office,  not  the 

wise 
Who  seek  for  higher   things,  scorn   all 

you  say, 
And  all  you  are  and  offer  in  this  world. 

You  '11  make  me  young  again,  you  say, 

and  I 

With  Cato,  and  with  Cicero  respond, 
Even  if  a  God  should  offer  this  to  me, 
And   not   a  devil  with   his   treacherous 

wiles 
As  you  are,  —  I  with  them  would  say, 

No  !  no  ! 
Here  in  this  life  I  am  but  as  a  guest, 


50          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

A  traveler  resting  at  a  wayside  inn, 
Longing  to  reach  my  home,  not  to  turn 

back. 

My  race  is  nearly  run  here  in  this  life  ; 
I  seek   the   final,  not   the   starting  goal. 

Life  is  but  toil  and  penance  at  the  best. 
The   higher  power   hath  planted  in  the 

soul 
Desires  and  longings  that  outreach  this 

world 
Whose   joys  are    transient,   and    whose 

knowledge  naught. 
My    hope    looks    forward    to    a    wider 

sphere, 
Where  all  the  good  and  great  of  yore 

have  gone  ; 
Where  I  may  meet  them,  listen  to  them, 

share 

Their  noble  thinking  with  a  larger  sense, 
A  wider    view ;    where    all  the   secrets 

dark 
Of  this  world  here  will  be  revealed  to 

me  ; 
Where  calm  in  spirit,  from  base  passions 

free, 
We  may  look  down  and  see  at  last,  and 

know. 


LATER  READINGS  51 

Here,  the  dark  veil  of  death  and  doubt 
obscures 

And  overshadows  all  our  life  and 
thought ; 

There,  all  is  clear.  There,  we  shall  see 
and  know, 

Not  dream  and  hope  and  fear  like  trav 
elers  lost 

In  the  dim  darkness  of  an  unseen  way. 

Why  should  I  wish  life's  passions  to  re 
new  ? 

What  is  life  at  the  best  but  toil  and 
strife 

And  endless  turmoil  ;  a  swift,  turbid 
stream 

Vexed  by  wild  currents  as  it  courses  on 

To  the  great  ocean  where  it  tends  and 
ends? 

And  youth,  what  is  it  but  a  passing 
breeze, 

A  song  that  but  a  moment  lasts  ;  a  dream 

Haunted  by  hopes  even  while  it  lasts  ; 

a  j°y 

That  while  we  own  it  is  not  truly  ours  ; 
A  gift  that   most  is   prized  when   it   is 

gone  ? 
Why  should  I  ask  to   have    my  youth 

again 


52  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

With  all  its  passions,  all  its  wild  de 
sires  ? 

No  !  no  !  in  looking  back  our  youth 
seems  sweet, 

But  sweeter  far  in  memory  than  in  fact  ; 

For  memory  with  its  spell  enchants  the 
past, 

And  lends  the  sternest  distances  a  charm, 

But  age  looks  forward  to  a  higher  life. 

But  ah  !  why  talk  to  you  on  themes  like 

this, 
Poor    taunting    devil !      Had    you    any 

shame, 

Any  belief,  hope,  faith  in  higher  things 
You  had  not  dared  to  offer  unto  me,, 
Seeking   for   life   and    knowledge,  your 

mean  gift. 
And  so  avaunt,  poor  fool  !     Out  of  my 

sight ! 
My  dim,  weak  candle  shows   but   little 

light, 
But  purer  light  at  least  on   life's  dark 

path. 

There,  that  is  somewhat  the  kind  of 
answer  that  I  should  have  supposed 
Faust  would  have  made,  had  he  been  an 


LATER  READINGS  53 

old  philosopher,  and  earnest  student  and 
seeker. 

She.  Almost  thou  persuadest  me  to 
agree  with  thee.  But,  if  Faust  had  re 
jected  the  temptation,  there  would  have 
been  an  end  of  it.  There  would  have 
been  no  play  at  all,  and  that  would  have 
been  an  irreparable  loss,  would  it  not  ? 

He.  Not  necessarily.  Mephisto  might 
have  tempted  him  in  another  and  more 
satisfactory  way. 

She.  What  way  ? 

He.  Oh,  I  am  not  going  to  be  tempted 
to  think  out  here  on  the  spot  the  plan 
for  a  play,  even  though  the  tempter  be 
so  wise  and  so  fair.  And  perhaps  it  is  not 
a  little  presumptuous  in  me  to  criticise 
such  a  work  as  this  of  Goethe,  which  the 
universal  world  has  accepted  as  a  work 
of  genius.  But  we  have  been  led  away 
a  little  too  far  from  the  subject  of  which 
we  were  talking,  and  I  should  rather 
go  back  to  that.  Let  me  see,  what  was 
it  we  were  saying  ? 

She.  We  were  talking  about  old  age, 
and  when  it  really  began  ;  and  you  were 
saying  that  it  is  not  so  much  a  question 
of  years  as  of  feeling  ;  and  we  were  tra- 


54          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

cing  it  from  the  old  young  men  through 
the  young  old  men  down  to  the  last  stage 
of  imbecility  and  childishness. 

He.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  ;  and  I  was 
saying  that  sad,  even  terrible,  as  it  was 
when  it  arrived  to  this,  —  at  least  to 
all  friends  and  acquaintances  and  mere 
lookers-on,  —  it  was  not  necessarily  sad 
to  the  person  himself,  unless  it  was  ac 
companied  with  bodily  sufferings.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  second  childishness,  un- 
tormented  by  self-consciousness  and  im 
possible  desires. 

She.  Well,  don't  let  us  think  of  that 
last  sad  condition.  I  don't  wish  even  to 
forecast  the  possibility  of  such  a  state 
of  things.  Read  me  something  a  little 
brighter,  if  you  please. 

He.  I  send  you  to  Cicero,  if  you  really 
wish  to  read  and  ponder  the  thoughts 
and  imaginings  of  a  noble  old  man,  filled 
with  high  aspirations. 

She.  I  will  read  his  treatise,  certainly, 
as  you  so  strongly  advise.  But  now  for 
something  a  little  lighter  in  character. 

He.  Well,  then,  let  us  take  our  middle- 
aged  man,  who  still  is  strong  and  well, 
but  knows  he  is  growing  old,  the  more  's 


LATER  READINGS  55 

the  pity.  He  returns  to  his  old  home 
and  old  friends  after  long  years  abroad, 
which  he  has  spent  in  amassing  a  fortune ; 
but  he  has  never  been  married,  never 
been  in  love  since  the  old  days,  the  per 
fume  of  which  still  hangs  about  him  as 
he  sees  the  old  friends  and  the  old  places, 
and  hears  the  old  voices.  It  is  far  away, 
but  still  it  is  not  utterly  gone,  and  at  one 
of  the  first  parties  he  goes  to  after  his 
return  Nannie  is  pointed  out  to  him. 

Ah,  no  !  no  !     It  cannot  be  !     No  ! 

What  !  that  little  stout  figure,  so  gray, 
Is  the  Nannie  I  once  used  to  know, 

So  brilliant  and  charming  and  gay, 
So  full  of  wild  fancy  and  whim, 

So  careless,  so  fair,  and  so  young, 
With  a  figure  so  slight  and  so  slim, 

And  a  jest  evermore  on  her  tongue  ? 

And  yet,  now  I  look  at  her  face, 

There  is  something  I  see  in  it  still 
Of  the  beauty  she  had,  and  the  grace, 
And  the  loveliness,  too,  if  you  will. 
There    is    still    the    sweet    charm    that 

entranced, 

And  the  same  pleasant  smile  and  sweet 
tone 


56  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

That  she  had  when  we  flirted  and  danced 
In  the  jolly  young  days  that  are  gone. 

'T  is  years,  such  long  years,  since  we  met, 
And  I  've  changed  so  !     Perhaps  she 

will  say, 

Who  is  this  old  fellow  ?     And  yet, 
Though  I  'm  older  than  she  and  more 

gray, 
Perhaps  she  '11  remember  me  still 

And   the   days   of   our  twenties.     By 

Jove  ! 
I  will  try  it,  and  laugh  if  you  will, 

But  she  won't,  I  hope,  —  my  old  love. 

She.  But  you  know  she  did  laugh,  and 
smiled,  and  they  grasped  each  other  cor 
dially  by  the  hand  ;  and  he  said,  "  I  hope 
you  are  well.  It 's  so  many  years  since 
we  met,  —  some  twenty,  I  fear.  But 
you  look  the  same  as  ever."  "  Oh 
dear  !  "  she  answered,  "  I  am  afraid  not," 
and  she  sighed,  and  there  was  a  little 
embarrassed  silence  for  a  moment ;  and 
then  she  said,  "  I  hope  life  has  gone  well 
with  you,  that  —  that  you  are  happy  — 
and  —  well."  And  then  Jones,  the  ubi 
quitous  Jones,  came  up  and  interrupted 
them,  and  spoilt  everything. 


LATER  READINGS  57 

He.  As  usual.  There  is  always  an 
intolerable  Jones,  who  will  come  in  with 
a  laugh  when  tears  are  just  brimming 
into  the  eyes,  when  the  heart  and  soul  are 
touched  by  some  tender  thought,  some 
pathetic  feeling.  But  don't  let  us  be 
sentimental  ! 

She.  Oh,  yes,  let  us  be  as  sentimental 
as  we  can  be.  Have  n't  you  any  moans 
over  the  past  that  you  have  put  into 
verse,  and  can  read  to  me  ? 

He.  Scores,  I  am  sorry  to  say  ;  alto 
gether  too  many. 

She.   Well,  let  me  hear  one.     Do  ! 

He.  So  be  it,  then.  Our  friend  X.  the 
unknown  went  wandering  about  the  old 
places,  and  this  was  the  result  of  one  of 
his  morning  rambles  under  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  in  the  old  place.  There  is 
always  some  old  place  which  is  the  old 
Place. 

Ay !  this  is  the  place  where  I  used  to 

wander, 

In  the  happy  days  that  are  gone, 
And  dream  of  the  future,  while  Hope  on 

tiptoe 
Beckoned,  and  lured  me  on. 


58  A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

All  seems  the   same,  though  the  trees 
must  be  larger, 

For  nothing  that  lives  is  still  ; 
But  in  Memory's  fond  exaggeration 

The  space  is  far  larger  they  fill. 

All    things    in    life   grow   dimmer   and 

smaller 

The  farther  from  childhood  we  stray. 
How    boundless    once    seemed    Youth's 

petty  garden  ! 

How  almost  endless  its  day  ! 
Time  lingers  with  Youth  and  sports  and 

dallies, 

But  with  Age  it  gallops  fast, 
And  narrow  to  Age  looks  the  little  play 
ground 
That  to  Childhood  seemed  so  vast. 

Here,  as  I  listen,  the  far,  old  voices 

Call  to  me  as  in  a  dream, 
And  almost,  for  a  moment,  —  alas  !  but  a 

moment,  — 
A  child  again  I  seem. 
The    torrent    among    the    moss  -  grown 

boulders, 
As  it  hurries  gurgling  along, 


LATER  READINGS  59 

And  eddies,  and  sparkles,  and  rushes,  and 

lingers, 
Still  sings  the  same  old  song. 

The  voices  of  nature,  the  sounds,  and  the 

odors 

Are  still  the  same  as  they  were  ; 
The  hum  of  the  insects,  the  birds  in  the 

shadows, 

The  whisperings  in  the  air. 
The  wild  flowers  are  blooming  the  same 

as  ever, 

And  the  quivering  sunlight  plays 
On   the   waving   trees   and    the   spiring 

grasses 
As  it  did  in  those  early  days. 

But  the  thoughts  and  the  dreams  and  the 

free,  glad  spirit, 
The  careless,  unreasoning  sense 
Of  a  joy  in  mere  living,  that  lent  to  all 

seeing 

A  feeling  so  glad  and  intense,  — 
Ah  !  those  have  vanished  beyond  recall 
ing* 

And  over  the  place  is  thrown 
A  silent  shadow,  a  veil  of  sadness, 
A  minor,  pathetic  tone. 


60  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

'T  is  nothing  the  hand   can  touch  ;  't  is 

nothing 

That  eye,  ear,  tongue  can  tell  ; 
But   a   shadowy    somewhat    beyond   ex 
pressing, 

Vague  and  intangible. 
The  very  odors  so  faintly  breathing 
Dim  visions  and  memories  bring, 
And  a  ghostly  feeling  of  something  van 
ished 
Hangs  over  everything. 

It  is  not  a  definite  sense  of  sorrow, 

It  is  not  a  real  pain, 
Nor  even  a  pining  desire  and  longing 

To  have  what  is  gone,  again  ; 
There   is   something   more   dear  in  this 
unnamed  feeling, 

That  the  spirit  would  shrink  to  give  up 
For  the  sharp,  quick  joy  and  the  eager 
gladness 

That  brimmed  youth's  sparkling  cup. 

So  for  an  hour  let  me  lie  half-dreaming 

Under  the  blue  sky's  tent, 
Softened    and    soothed    by    a    peaceful 
feeling 

Of  tenderest  sentiment. 


LATER  READINGS  61 

Not  regretting  and  never  forgetting 
The  life  that  is  past  and  gone, 

But  filled  with  a  pensive  sense  of  pleasure 
That  gladness  can  never  own. 

After  the  early  morning's  splendor, 

After  the  radiant  noon, 
A  tenderer  sense  steals  over  nature 

As  the  sun  slopes  slowly  down. 
As  we  sit  in  the  twilight  gray  and  tender, 

Is  its  shadowy  light  less  dear 
When  we  know  that  the  work  of  the  day 
is  over 

And  the  stars  are  drawing  near  ? 

She.  Yes,  that 's  a  little  more  serious 
than  some  of  the  others,  and  I  like  it 
better.  Ah,  me  !  the  little  garden  did 
seem  so  much  more  spacious  when  we 
were  children  !  I  went  last  year  back  to 
the  old  house  where  I  was  born,  in  that 
delightful  town  of  S.,  which  charmed  me 
specially  because  the  step  of  improve 
ment,  as  it  is  called,  had  but  slightly  in 
truded  into  it,  and  things,  and  places,  and 
houses  were  very  much  as  they  used  to  be. 
Everything  looked  smaller,  of  course  ; 
but,  thank  God,  there  was  comparatively 


62  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

little  that  was  new  there.  The  ghastly 
new  had  not  trodden  over  it  and  obliter 
ated  the  old.  Even  the  ghosts  were  there, 
and  I  communed  with  them  sadly  but 
pleasantly ;  and  the  places  I  used  to  know 
were  sown  with  memories.  Yes,  even 
the  rosebush  was  still  living  that  clung 
about  the  porch,  and  the  scent  of  those 
roses  had  to  my  spirit  something  beyond 
all  saying. 

He.  Yes  ;  I  sympathize  entirely  with 
you.  There  is  nothing  so  associated  with 
memories  of  the  past  as  odors.  It  came 
over  me  the  other  day  with  peculiar 
power.  I  was  wandering  about  in  the 
garden  at  Ragatz,  with  no  purpose,  and 
with  nothing  in  my  thoughts,  when  I  saw 
a  single  rose  covered  with  the  morning 
dew,  which  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  call  to 
me,  as  if  it  had  something  to  say.  What 
it  said  I  scribbled  down  at  the  moment 
on  the  back  of  an  old  letter,  and  here 
it  is  :  — 

I  smelt  of  a  rose  in  the  morning, 
All  cool  with  its  sparkling  dew, 

So  fresh,  so  fair,  so  fragrant, 
That  it  made  me  think  of  you. 


LATER  READINGS  63 

It  brought  up  the  dreams  of  the  old  days 

Ere  care  and  sorrow  were  ours, 
And  the  dear  old  garden  and  shadowy 

trees, 

With   its    springtime     fragrance     of 
flowers. 

And  there  again  we  were  walking, 

And  you  were  so  glad  and  gay, 
Laughing  and  talking,  —  and  we   were 
children, 

And  life  was  a  dream  and  a  play. 
The  veriest  nothings  amused  us, 

For  everything  seemed  so  fair, 
And  the  simple  joy  of  our  innocence 

Was  a  perfume  that  filled  the  air. 

It  was  but  a  little  moment,  — 

It  passed,  and  I  turned  with  a  sigh 
And  wandered  alone  through  the  village 

And  dreamed  of  the  days  gone  by,  — 
Gone  —  gone  —  beyond  all  recalling; 

And  a  sad  old  man  again 
I  wandered  along,  with  tears  in  my  eyes, 

Half  of  happiness,  half  of  pain. 

She.   It  is  of  no  use  to  sigh  and  re 
gret.     Everything  goes.     Life  is  passed 


64  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

either  in  looking  back  or  in  looking  for 
ward.  Youth  is  always  looking  forward 
for  something  vague  and  indefinite,  which 
it  never  grasps  in  its  hand  and  really 
owns.  And  Age  is  always  looking  back, 
and  trying  to  gather  up  the  flowers  that 
it  carelessly  dropped  on  its  track,  never 
knowing  their  value  or  enjoying  their 
fragrance  so  long  as  it  had  them  in  its 
hand  ;  but  when  they  are  lost  beyond 
recall,  what  a  perfume  beyond  the  telling 
they  seem  to  have  ! 

He.  Yes,  there  is  some  truth  in  that, 
as  well  as  in  the  opposite  statement.  It 
is  vain  to  deny  that  we  did  enjoy  our 
youth.  If  we  could  pick  up  those  flowers 
again,  perhaps  they  would  not  smell  so 
sweet  as  they  did  when  they  were  ours 
to  own.  Youth  not  only  seems  to  us,  as 
we  look  back,  like  a  wonderful  dream, 
it  was  a  wonder  and  a  delight  in  reality. 
We  were  not  only  young  ourselves,  but 
all  the  world  was  young,  and  new,  and 
glad,  and  gay.  The  mere  sense  of  living 
was  a  joy  in  itself,  and  out  of  its  fountain 
ran  for  us  a  perpetual  stream  of  delight, 
which  waters  the  garden  of  dreams  as 
long  as  life  remains.  And,  by  the  way, 


LATER  READINGS  65 

here  are  some  verses  which  my  friend  X. 
wrote,  which  perhaps  may  interest  you, 
as  in  some  way  illustrating  what  I  was 
saying. 

She.  Read  them,  please. 

He,  They  embody  only  a  man's  feel 
ings,  as  well  as  an  artist's,  and  perhaps 
you  will  not  sympathize  with  them.  Your 
memories  as  a  woman  would  naturally 
be  so  different. 

She.  Read  them,  and  don't  make  any 
more  apologies  and  explanations.  You 
know  what  pleasure  it  gives  me. 

He.   Well,  here  they  are  :  — 

Oh,  the  gladness,  the  wild,  careless  mad 
ness, 

That  youth  and  youth  only  can  own  ! 
Oh,  the  joy  of  mere  movement,  the  body's 

Free  Carnival,  —  mere  life  alone 
Being  joy  in  itself,  —  the  wild  nature 

Asserting  itself  in  our  veins, 
The    blood    mantling    fast,    the    heart 

beating, 

The    muscles'    fierce     struggles    and 
strain  ! 

All   these   once   were   mine,  —  the    free 
gallop, 


66          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

The  wind  blowing  fresh  on  my  face  ; 
The  hunter's  wild  revel,  the  topping  of 

fences, 

The  eager,  glad  zest  of  the  chase  ; 
The  tramp  o'er  the   moor  through  the 

heather, 
Where  hide  the  gray  grouse  ;  the  long 

stalk 
On    hills,    hollows,    rocks,  —  crouching, 

crawling, 
Scarce  daring  in  whispers  to  talk, 

But  pointing,  with  gesture  explaining 

Far  more  than  with  words,  while   we 

hide 
And  watch  the  far  stag  as  he  browses, 

And  track  him  along  the  hillside 
As  he  slowly  moves  on,  ever  watchful 

And  lifting  his  head  now  and  then 
With  a  sudden  and  startled  half-question 

And  doubt  of  the  presence  of  men. 

Ah,  then  the  mere  stretch  of  the  muscles, 
The  straining  and  playing  at  strife  ; 

The  wrestling,  the   racing,    the   cricket, 

the  football, 
Were  joys  in  the  revel  of  life. 

From  study  and  wearisome  plodding 
We  slipped  swift  and  scornful  away, 


LATER  READINGS  67 

For  the  body  cried,  —  Come,  leave  your 

working  ! 

There  is  nothing   on   earth   good  but 
play  ! 

And  now  as  above  the  low  embers 

Of  life  I  stretch  out  my  cold  hands, 
And  dream  of  the  joys  that  have  vanished, 

Before  me  a  dim  figure  stands, 
Who  smiles,  half  in  pity,  and  bending 

Towards  me,  I  hear  her  lips  say,  — 
It  is  true,  both  of  body  and  spirit, 

The  best  man  can  do  is  half  play. 

So  long  as  your  work  is  mere  labor 

The  Gods  will  not  smile  nor  approve. 
In  the  highest  and  truest  is  hidden 

The  germs  both  of  joy  and  of  love. 
While  your  Art   is   mere  toil  and  your 
goodness 

Mere  duty,  't  is  senseless  and  dead. 
There 's  a  smile  on  the  face  of  all  angels 

And  Beauty  to  Gladness  is  wed. 

It  is  not  enough  in  our  doing 

To  strive  to  do  well ;  all  the  while 

We  must  feel  in  the  doing  and  wooing 
A  passionate  joy,  ere  the  smile 


68  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Of  the  Gods  will  be  given.    Their  blessing 
We  only  can  win  from  above 

When   with   glad   and    free    spirit    like 

children 
We  seek  them  in  joy  and  in  love.  ) 

She.  My  experiences  are  not,  as  you 
say,  exactly  the  same  as  those  of  your 
friend  X.,  but  I  do  sympathize  with  him, 
at  all  events,  in  the  wild  gallop  over  the 
country.  That  is  fun.  Is  n't  it  ?  That 
is  life.  As  for  the  Art  part  of  his  verses, 
it  may  be  all  very  well,  but  I  know 
I  had  pretty  hard  work  in  trying  my 
hand  at  it,  and  I  never  succeeded  in 
doing  anything  worth  doing.  I  suppose 
I  did  not  work,  as  he  says,  in  joy  and  in 
love.  That  I  certainly  did  not,  any  more 
than  I  did  at  my  music.  Oh,  how  tedi 
ous  those  scales  were  !  But  don't  let  us 
speak  of  them.  Art,  I  think,  in  all  its 
forms  requires  very  hard  work.  I  never 
tried  my  hand  at  poems,  or,  as  you  would 
say,  verses,  for  I  never  could  make  any 
lines  to  rhyme.  How  do  you  do  it  ? 

He.  I  know  as  little  about  it  as  you 
do.  Where  do  any  of  our  ideas  and 
thoughts  come  from,  and  why  do  they 


LATER  READINGS  69 

take  the  form  that  they  do  ?  And  whence 
comes  the  moving  force  that  impels  us 
to  do  this  or  that  ?  Who  knows  ?  ^Ah  ! 
this  is  an  entire  mystery  to  us  all.  [_The 
strings  of  the  instrument  have  only  the 
possibilities  of  music  in  them,  and  some 
times  they  are  touched  to  tender  tones, 
sometimes  to  harsh  discords  ;  and  some 
times  they  wait  vainly  for  any  touch  at 
all,  and  are  simply  dead  strings.  And 
so  it  is  with  the  spirit  of  man.  All  we 
can  do  is  to  keep  it,  as  far  as  may  be,  in 
tune,  and  await,  hoping  that  it  may  fitly 
respond  when  it  is  touched.  \ 

She.  When  that  power  comes,  —  you 
call  it  inspiration,  —  you  breathe  it  in  as 
you  do  the  air.  Yes  ;  I  understand  the 
word,  but  it  explains  nothing  to  me,  after 
all. 

He.  Can  we  explain  anything,  even 
the  most  trivial?  CA11  life  is  in  one 
sense  a  miracle.  If  I  ask  you,  for 
example,  the  simple  question  how  do 
you  move  your  arm,  can  you  explain  ? 
It  has  at  last  become  so  familiar  a  fact 
in  your  experience,  and  it  seems  so  simple, 
that  it  needs  no  explanation.  But  when 
you  ask  yourself  really  how  you  do  it, 


70          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

you  at  once  see  that  it  is,  like  everything 
else,  perfectly  unintelligible.  If  this  be 
so  with  the  body,  how  far  more  impos 
sible  it  is  to  explain  the  movements  of 
the  so-called  spirit,  —  why  it  is  affected 
in  this  way  or  that;  what  impels  it;  and 
in  fact  what  sort  of  a  definite  idea  have 
we  of  what  the  spirit  is,  as  distinguished 
from  the  body  ?  And  death,  —  what  is 
death?  '/ 

She.  Ay,  and  for  the  matter  of  that, 
what  is  life  ?  We  talk  very  glibly  about 
these  mysteries,  but  what  do  we  know,  — 
anything  ? 

He.  I  have  asked  myself  these  ques 
tions  so  often,  and  the  more  I  seek  the 
less  I  know.  Let  me  read  you  a  few 
verses  I  wrote  on  this  subject.  Upon 
the  whole,  perhaps  they  are  too  serious 
to  be  in  harmony  with  the  day  and  the 
hour. 

She.   No  ;  read  them,  please. 

He.  They  were  questions  I  asked  of 
myself  on  the  sudden  death  of  a  friend. 

Gone  ?     What  is  gone  ?  and  where  ? 

Ah  !  who  of  us  can  say  ? 
Somewhat,  we  know,  that  scarce  an  hour 
ago 


LATER  READINGS  71 

Was  with  us  here,  quick,  sentient,  and 

aware, 

Hath  passed  from  Life  away,  — 
What,  where,  we  do  not  know. 
Somewhat  that  lived  and  breathed  and 

moved, 

Thought,  answered,  reasoned,  loved, 
Hath  vanished  from  us,  out  of  sense  and 

sight  ; 

Gone  like  a  breath  into  the  air 
From  this  world's  good  and  ill,  and  joy 

and  care, 

Unto  the  vast  Unknown,  the  Infinite, 
Where  human  eye  may  vainly  try 
To  track  its  pathless  flight; 
Gone,  leaving  silent,  cold,  dumb,  dead, 
The  mortal  tenement  it  habited. 
The  chambers  all  are  here  in  which   it 

dwelt, 

Its  windows  open,  —  all  that  eye  can  see 
Of  its  material  house  seems  here  to  be  ; 
But  what  within  it  lived  and  moved  and 

felt 
Has   gone   forever,  —  whither,  who  can 

say  ? 
All  that  we  know  is  something  's   gone 

away 
Beyond  our  reach,  beyond   our  love    or 

hate, 


72          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Where  we  too  all  shall  go,  or  soon,  or  late, 
And  know  what  now  is  dim  to  us  and 

blind,  — 
Beyond  the  reach  and  stretch  of  human 

mind, 

Having  alone  the  lights  of  Faith  and  Hope 
With   which   into   that   vast   beyond   to 

grope. 

Never  again  before  me  he  will  stand  ! 
Never  again  the  pressure  of  that  hand  ! 
Never   again    the    gladsome    light    that 

shone 
From  those  kind  eyes  !  Never  the  friendly 

tone 
That  used  to  greet  me  from  those  silent 

lips  ! 
For  Death  hath   shrouded  now  in  dark 

eclipse 
And    wrapped    in   silence,   terrible   and 

grand, 
All   that  I  knew  and  loved,  —  nay,  will 

not  spare 
The  bodily  vestment  that   Life  used  to 

wear, 

But  gives  up  even  that  to  dark  decay 
Now  that  its   human   guest  has   passed 

away. 


LATER  READINGS  73 

Gone  to  the  land  of  spirits,  —  so  we  say. 
What  to  do  there  ?     Will  the  long  toil 

of  years 
While  here  he  moved  along  this  mortal 

way, 
The  experience,  training,  learning  of  this 

life 
Gained    by    hard    struggle,    self-denial, 

strife, 
Avail    him    aught    within    those    spirit 

spheres  ? 
Stripped  of  all  life  has  given,  what  will 

remain 
More  than  he  owned  when  to  this  world 

he  came, 

A  helpless  infant  ?     Must  he  there  again 
Begin  a  new  life,  struggle,  toil,  and  strain, 
And  then  beyond  that  life  still  onward  go 
To  new  existences  without  a  name, 
Where    even    our   wildest    dreams    and 

hopes  fall  back 

All  broken-winged,  incapable  to  track 
One  single  step  beyond  this  life  below  ? 

Where    has   he  gone  ?     Alas !   we   only 

know 

That  into  the  vague  silence  he  has  gone, 
The  dim,  mysterious   silence   known   to 

none, 


74          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

From  out   of  which   he  came,  to   which 

again, 

All  unaccompanied,  he  goes,  alone  — 
To  a  new  life,  we  say,  we  hope,  we  guess, 
Or   as   fear   dictates,  to  blank   nothing 
ness,  — 

The  nothingness  that  was  before  his  birth, 
The  dim  unknown  from  which  he  came 
to  earth. 

And  thus  to  end  it  all,  perchance,  were 

best,  — 

To  pass  into  a  deep,  eternal  rest, 
Beyond    the   reach   of  human  praise  or 

blame  ; 
All  toil,  all  trouble  passed,  all  growth, 

all  change, 
All  sad  compunctions,  all  sharp  pangs  of 

shame  ; 
The   soul  swept  far  away  beyond    the 

range 

Of  personality  and  conscious  sense 
Into  Nirvana's  dreamless,  blissful  trance, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  fate,  and  death,  and 

chance. 

Ah,  this  perchance  were  best,  —  no  steps 
to  climb, 


LATER  READINGS  75 

No  tasks  to  master,  but  a  calm  sublime 
Man  cannot  know  in  such  a  world  as  this. 
For,  as  Gautama  says,  Life's  mystery  is 
In  life  itself  inherent.     Being  here 
All  is  illusion,  —  hope,  joy,  love,  or  fear. 
End  life,  and  all  is  bliss,  for  while  we  live 
Nothing  will  satisfy.    The  soul  will  crave, 
Do  what  we  will,  far  more  than  it  can 

have, 
More  than  the  cup  can  hold  or  life  can 

give. 

Yet,   no  ;    the   soul   rebels   against    the 

thought 

That  it  can  ever  end  in  vacant  naught  ; 
That    all    the    loves,    joys,  friendships, 

memories  dear 
That  we  have  known  and  felt  while  living 

here, 
When   this   life  ends,  and  death's  dark 

veil  is  drawn, 

Will  vanish  utterly  and  disappear 
And   we  be   nothing,  —  a   mere  passing 

tone 
On  life's  great  instrument,  that  vibrates 

here 
For  one  brief  moment's  space,  and  then 

is  gone. 


76          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

You  are  silent. 

She.  What  is  there  to  say  ?  You  have 
asked  questions  impossible  to  answer. 
You  have  held  up  a  little  farthing  light 
to  explore  infinite  worlds  above  and  be 
yond,  that  are  darkly  hidden  from  us 
here.  And  perhaps  the  best  philosophy 
is  to  abstain  from  any  attempts  to  explore 
into  either  the  past  behind  our  life,  or  the 
future  beyond  it,  but  without  plaguing  our 
minds  with  problems  beyond  our  power, 
to  resolve  simply  to  strive  to  do  our  duty 
here  as  it  comes  to  us  day  by  day  and 
hour  by  hour,  to  have  a  fixed  faith  that 
all  that  is  is  right,  and  to  walk  humbly 
through  life. 

He.  Yes,  undoubtedly  ;  but  one  can 
not  help  asking  such  questions,  futile 
as  they  are.  Still,  I  envy  those  who 
stretch  themselves  out  on  the  pillow  of 
the  Church,  and  accept  whatever  their 
priest  tells  them  as  the  word  of  God,  and 
who  satisfy  their  minds,  or  what  they 
call  their  minds,  by  "We  are  told,"  — 
4 'It  is  affirmed." 

She.  Well,  any  faith  is  better  than 
none.  The  wisest  as  well  as  the  foolishest 
know  nothing.  But  don't  let  us  plague 


LATER  READINGS  77 

our  minds  any  more  about  such  questions, 
but  go  back  to  what  you  were  saying 
about  our  being  instruments  that  Nature 
plays  upon,  sometimes  evoking  harmonies, 
sometimes  discords  and  mere  noises. 
Have  you  any  poem  developing  that 
idea  ?  If  so,  I  should  like  to  hear  it,  if 
you  will  kindly  read  it. 

He.    Yes,  here  is  one,  I  believe,  which 
touches  upon  it. 

We  receive,  but  we  cannot  create  ; 

Thought  is  barren,  and  labor  is  vain. 
Till  the  Gods  give  the  seed  and  the  sun 
and  the  rain, 

Nothing  flowers  ;  and  we  humbly  must 

wait, 

Content  if,  from  no  one  knows  whence, 
By  the  force  of  some  influence 

Beyond  all  the  reach  of  our  powers, 
Some  seed  shall  be  wafted  below 
In  our  being  to  blossom  and  grow 

And  make  what  is  sent  to  us  ours. 

Ah,  what  do  our  wishes  avail, 

Or  our  strength  that  we  boast,  or  our 

will, 
Though  we  set  to  the  wind  every  sail 

With  the  mariner's  perfectest  skill  ? 


78  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

What  avails  it  ?    Unless  the  wind  blows 
There  we  lie  in  a  helpless  repose, 

Or  drift  with  no  purpose,  half  dead  ; 
But  when  comes  the  breath  and  the  blast, 
The  veriest  rag  on  our  mast 

Will  give  us  a  way  and  a  head. 

All  we  have,  all  we  are,  here,  is  given 

Or  just  for  a  moment  lent  ; 
We   are   naught  of   ourselves,  we   must 
wait  till  from  heaven 

That  breath  and  that  life  has  been  sent. 
We  only  can  wait,  and  must  watch 
The  impulse  from  heaven  to  catch 

With  a  spirit  receptive  and  free. 
Who    can    tell    when    that  guest    may 

arrive  ? 
Let  it  find  us  alert  and  alive 

To  receive  it  whenever  it  be. 

She.  I  dare  say  all  that  is  very  true  in 
its  way.  But  you  seem  in  this  poem  to 
make  very  little  account  of  the  necessity 
of  labor  and  preparation  on  the  part  of  the 
receiver,  be  he  poet,  or  artist,  or  musical 
composer.  Everything  is  to  be  given, 
naught  to  be  sought  for  or  fought  for, 
or  even  deserved.  I  had  no  idea  that 


LATER  READINGS  79 

things  came  so  easy  as  that.  I  thought 
a  great  deal  of  training  and  hard  work 
was  a  necessary  preliminary  to  any  suc 
cess  in  any  form  of  art.  But  it  would 
seem  as  if,  like  the  beggars  at  the  doors 
of  churches,  you  artists  had  only  to  sit 
in  the  sunshine  and  stretch  out  your 
hands  for  alms. 

He.   Oh,  you  did,  did  you  ? 

She.  So  at  least  it  would  seem  from 
your  poem. 

He.  Oh,  I  see.  You  choose  willfully  to 
misunderstand  it.  Did  I  ever  say  that  it 
was  not  necessary  for  an  artist  to  work 
unweariedly  and  never  to  relax  his  efforts? 
Never  !  But  only  that  after  he  had  done 
his  best  to  prepare  the  way,  the  guest 
often  does  not  arrive.  Hard  work  is  of 
course  required,  but  that  will  not  suffice 
if  he  has  no  ideas  ;  and  where  do  ideas 
come  from  ?  I  suppose  you  know  ! 

She.  Of  course  I  do,  but  I  decline  to 
tell  you. 

He.  "  This  easy  reading "  is,  as  was 
once  said,  —  excuse  the  profanity,  but  it 
lends  force  to  the  statement,  —  "d — d 
hard  writing."  This  I  do  not  understand 
to  mean  the  mere  writing  in  itself,  that  is 


80          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

easy  enough,  but  the  toil  that  has  gone 
before,  the  hard  hours  of  study  and  prep 
aration.  And,  by  the  way,  there  was 
once  a  young  lady  in  Greece,  I  don't  re 
member  whether  her  name  was  Alsinoe 
or  Phryne,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  re 
sembled  you,  for  she  was  a  most  beautiful 
and  interesting  creature,  just  about  your 
height  and  figure,  as  I  remember  her, 
though  she  did  not  wear  the  same  dress. 

She.  Well,  and  what  of  her  ? 

He.  I  once  overheard  a  little  conversa 
tion  she  had  with  Phidias  that  I  jotted 
down  at  the  moment,  without  their 
knowledge  of  course,  that  may  interest 
you  in  this  connection.  It  was  this  :  — 

Speak,  Phidias  !  speak,  and  say 
Does  success  wait  ever  on  you  ? 

Have  you  never  failed  ?     Is  your  work 

all  play  ? 
Do  you  find  nothing  hard  to  do  ? 

Ah,  my  friend,  every  road  that  leads 
To  the  easy  with  hard  begins  ; 

Nothing  entirely  succeeds, 
To  Hope's  goal  nobody  wins. 


LATER  READINGS  81 

Hard  ?     Of  course  it  was  hard  ! 

Failed  ?     Yes,  a  thousand  times  ! 
Victory  comes  to  the  scarred, 

The  heights  unto  him  who  climbs, 

Through  falling  we  learn  to  walk, 
Through  failure  to  grow  to  power  ; 

And  high  on  the  topmost  stalk 
Of  Labor  is  Art's  full  flower. 

Nature  exacts  strict  pay, 

Nothing  she  lends  or  gives  ; 
No  lingerer  along  Art's  way 

The  prize  and  the  triumph  achieves. 

What  we  crave  is  beyond  and  before, 
What  is  done  is  behind  and  done. 

The  Future  keeps  promising  more, 
And  prompts  us  forever  on. 

The  sternest  of  foes  to  the  good 
Is  the  better,  —  the  Best,  the  Ideal, 

However  't  is  longed  for,  sought,  wooed, 
Laughs  fleeing  away  from  the  Real. 

The  labor  in  which  we  delight, 
The  toil  to  which  love  is  given, 


82  A  POST'S  PORTFOLIO 

Is  the  path  that  leads  to  Art's  height, 
But  the  prize  must  come  down  from 
heaven. 

There  ;  does  that  clear  up  the  diffi 
culty  ? 

She.  I  don't  think  there  is  much  poe 
try  in  it,  but  it  will  do.  "  'T  is  not  so 
deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as  a  church 
door  ;  but  't  is  enough,  't  will  serve,"  as 
Mercutio  has  it.  It 's  very  moral,  I  dare 
say,  and  philosophical. 

He.  Sermoni  propriora,  I  suppose  you 
mean,  —  "  Properer  for  a  sermon,"  as  it 
was  once  translated. 

She.  I  don't  understand  Latin,  and 
you  know  it,  but  "  properer  for  a  sermon  " 
it  certainly  is.  But  I  doubt  whether  it 
is  poetical. 

He.  "  I  do  not  know  what  'poetical' 
is  :  is  it  honest  in  deed  and  word  ?  is  it  a 
true  thing  ?  " 

She.  "No,"  Audrey,  "for  the  truest 
poetry  is  the  most  feigning." 

He.  You  have  n't  praised  a  single  one 
of  the  verses  that  I  have  read  to  you. 

She.  Oh,  you  expected  to  be  praised, 
did  you  ?  That 's  singular,  is  n't  it,  for  a 
poet? 


LATER  READINGS  83 

He.   Very,  I  suppose. 

She.  Why  do  you  suppose  I  ask  you 
to  read  them,  and  to  continue  to  read 
them,  if  I  don't  like  them  ? 

He.   Oh,  capriciousness,  I  dare  say. 

She.  Thank  you.  Shall  I  begin  to 
flatter  you,  and  say  that  every  one  of  the 
poems  you  have  read  to-day  is  perfectly 
exquisite  ? 

He.  Yes ;  you  can  say  so,  if  you  please. 

She.  And  you  will  believe  it  ? 

He.  Ah,  that's  another  thing.  You 
know  that  I  don't  think  any  of  these 
trifling  things  of  any  special  value,  but  I 
read  them  because  you  command  it,  and 
I  am  your  slave. 

She.  Well,  don't  let  us  skirmish  any 
longer  ;  but  go  on  and  read  something 
else.  I  cry  out  for  more,  —  more,  like 
Oliver  Twist  in  Dickens's  work.  My  ap 
petite  is  not  yet  satisfied.  No,  really, 
honestly  !  "  I  can  suck  melancholy  out 
of  a  song  "  as  well  as  Jaques,  so  "  more, 
I  prithee,  more." 

He.  "  My  voice  is  ragged  :  I  know  I 
cannot  please  you." 

She.  Oh,  if  you  will  have  Shakespeare, 
my  answer  is  still  that  of  Jaques  :  "  I  do 


84  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

not  desire  you  to  please  me  ;  I  do  de 
sire  you  to  sing.  Come,  more  ;  another 
stanzo  :  call  you  'em  stauzos  ?  " 

He.  "  What  you  will."  But  don't  you 
think  we  should  better  walk  about  a  little 
in  the  forest,  and  then  we  can  come  back 
and  read  a  little,  if  you  so  desire  ? 

She.  No,  I  prefer  to  sit  here.  It  is  so 
charming  a  place,  and  the  brook  sings  a 
perpetual  silvery  accompaniment  to  your 
reading ;  and  I  don't  get  a  poet  every 
day.  The  great  enemy  to  the  good  is  the 
better.  Let  us  be  satisfied  as  we  are. 
This  is  really  an  ideal  place,  a  sort  of 
Forest  of  Arden  ;  and  see  !  there  comes 
one  of  the  shepherdesses.  How  pictur 
esque  she  looks  in  her  red  bodice,  as  she 
saunters  along,  with  that  colored  kerchief 
on  her  head.  And  what  has  she  in 
that  basket,  all  covered  with  leaves  ? 

He.  Strawberries,  or  raspberries,  I 
suppose.  You  know  the  woods  here  are 
filled  with  them  ;  or  perhaps  she  has 
mushrooms.  Oh,  mushrooms,  fit  for  the 
tables  of  the  gods,  or  to  be  tables  them 
selves  for  Titania  to  feast  on  with  Puck, 
or  Bottom,  while  she  his  amiable  cheeks 
did  coy,  and  stuck  musk-roses  in  his 


LATER  READINGS  85 

sleek  smooth  head.  Ah,  buon  giorno, 
Livia.  Che  cosa  hai  11  nella  tua  canestra? 
Lamponi  ?  Fungi  ?  Fravole  ? 

Lima.  Si,  Signore,  fravole.     Guardi. 

He.  E  quanto  ne  vuoi  il  kilo  ? 

Livia.     Quel  che  vuol  Lei  —  Signore. 

He.  Madl  —  dl— quanto? 

Livia.  Quaranta  centesimi,  Signore. 

He.  They  are  strawberries  ;  would  you 
like  some  ? 

She.  Oh,  yes  ;  buy  them  all !  What  a 
pretty  girl  she  is  !  What  a  shy  little 
way  she  has,  and  what  a  sweet  smile  ! 
And  such  blue  eyes  !  Is  not  that  very 
singular  ?  I  thought  all  Italians  had 
black  eyes.  And  all  these  wild  straw 
berries  for  forty  centimes  ?  It  seems  ab 
surd,  does  n't  it  ? 

He.  Every  day  there  are  scores  of 
these  little  peasant  girls  ransacking  the 
woods  for  strawberries,  raspberries,  and 
mushrooms  ;  and  they  are  up  and  at  their 
work  long  before  the  sun  rises. 

She.  Poor  little  things  !  And  what  do 
they  do  with  them  ? 

He.  Carry  them  down  to  the  neighbor 
ing  villages,  where  they  are  bought  and 
sent  to  the  city. 


86  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Lima.  Addio,  Signore.     Grazie,  sa. 

He.     Addio,  Livia.     A  rivederci ! 

She.  And  who  is  this  little  girl  ?  You 
seem  to  know  her. 

He.  She  is  the  daughter  of  one  of  the 
contadini  here,  and  is  a  very  good  child. 

She.  She  is  very  pretty  and  sweet  and 
simple. 

He.  Ah,  you  should  have  seen  her  sister 
Fioretta,  as  we  called  her.  She  was 
really  a  beauty,  and,  young  as  she  was,  was 
a  second  mother  to  all  her  little  sisters 
and  brothers.  Ah,  me  ! 

She.  Why  do  you  sigh,  and  say  "  Ah, 
me  "  ?  Did  any  misfortune  happen  to 
her? 

He.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  a 
misfortune  or  not.  Life  is  hard  to  the 
poor,  and  her  family  were  very  poor  ; 
and  there  were  many  mouths  to  feed,  and 
there  was  little  to  do  to  gain  the  money 
necessary  for  even  their  small  wants  ; 
and  —  but  perhaps  it  is  best  as  it  was. 

She.  As  what  was  ? 

He.  That  she  should  be  taken  away. 

She.  Who  took  her  away,  and  why  did 
they  take  her? 

He.    Oh,   nothing  peculiar  happened, 


LATER  READINGS  87 

other  than  what  is  always  happening  to 
the  rich  and  poor  alike.  I  will  read  you 
a  few  verses  I  wrote  about  her,  which 
will  tell  you  her  story. 

FIORETTA. 

She  was  but  a  peasant  lass  ; 

Nothing  of  the  world  she  knew  ; 
'Neath  the  trees,  along  the  grass, 

Like  a  wayside  flower  she  grew. 
Little  thought  or  hope  she  had, 

Living  happy  for  the  day  ; 
Joyous,  innocent,  and  glad, 

Life  to  her  was  only  play. 

Blue  her  eyes  were,  blonde  her  hair  ; 

When  she  spoke  to  you  she  smiled 
With  a  smile  so  shy  and  rare 

That  the  sternest  it  beguiled. 
Fioretta  she  was  named, 

For  she  seemed  to  one  and  all 
Like  a  flower,  —  as  unashamed, 

Modest,  sweet,  and  natural. 

So  her  little  life  of  May 
Lived  she  all  unconsciously, 

Till  it  chanced,  one  summer's  day, 
Death,  as  he  came  wandering  by, 


88  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Paused,  —  and  then  with  ruthless  hand 
Plucked  our  little  flower  to  bear 

To  a  far-off  better  Land, 

Deeming  her  for  ours  too  fair. 

Now,  whene'er  that  spot  I  pass 

Where  Fioretta  used  to  be, 
Only  a  smooth  mound  of  grass 

With  a  stone  and  name  I  see. 
She  is  there  no  more  to  greet 

With  a  smile  my  seeking  eyes, 
And  of  all  those  meetings  sweet 

Naught  remains  but  memories. 

She.  Poor  little  Fioretta  ! 

He.  Yes,  poor  little  Fioretta,  so 
pretty,  so  sweet,  so  gentle  !  She  is  gone 
the  way  we  all  must  go.  But,  as  I  said, 
it  is  perhaps  better  so.  Who  knows  what 
life  might  have  brought  her  of  pain  and 
sorrow  and  privation.  She  is  safe  from 
all  those  pangs  now,  from  all  the  slings 
and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune,  and  all 
the  whips  and  scorns  of  time,  and  all  the 
spurns  that  patient  merit  from  the  un 
worthy  takes.  Sometimes,  when  I  am 
low  in  spirits,  I  go  up  and  sit  by  her  little 
grave.  It  is  in  a  spot  of  consecrated 


LATER  READINGS  89 

ground,  overlooking  (but  alas  !  she  does 
not  see  it)  a  vast  and  beautiful  rolling 
country  of  hills  and  vales,  thronged  with 
trees,  and  bounded  by  a  range  of  moun 
tains  that,  veiled  in  blue  mist,  lift  against 
the  far-off  sky.  Through  the  valley, 
winding  like  a  ribbon  of  silver,  gleams  the 
distant  river,  and  on  clear  days  sparkle 
the  towers  and  dome  and  spires  of  the 
silent  city  that  seems  to  sleep  in  its  lap, 
all  its  noise  and  tumult  and  confusion 
of  life  shrouded  and  hushed  in  the  dis 
tance.  Now  and  then  across  the  sky 
a  falcon  wings  its  way,  sailing  through  the 
ocean  of  air  with  easy  sweeps,  beyond  the 
reach  of  man's  destructive  wish.  And 
here  many  a  morning  I  sit  and  muse,  and 
many  a  twilight  I  watch  the  sunset's 
dying  glow,  transfiguring  the  clouds  that 
float  above  it  with  splendor,  and  gradu 
ally  giving  place  to  the  still  gray  of  even 
ing.  And  there  one  morning  I  wrote  some 
other  lines,  haunted  by  the  memory  of  the 
little  Fioretta.  Shall  I  read  them  ? 

She.  Do,  please. 

He. 

Whether  it  rains  or  shines, 
To  thee  't  is  one,  — 


90          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Thou  art  at  rest,  no  more  oppressed, 

Thy  work,  thy  duty  done. 
Thou  hast  no  more  to  fear,  — 

The  busy  brain  is  still, 

Quiet  the  pulse's  thrill ; 
No  more  to  hope  or  to  regret 

Of  good  —  or  ill. 

Tempests  may  rage  above  thee, 

Thou  wilt  not  stir  ; 
Beyond  the  range  of  chance  and  change, 

Eternal  voyager. 
Death's  gate  swung  open  wide 

Hath  let  thee  through 

Into  the  awful  new,  — 
Into  the  life  beyond  our  life, 

Of  vaster  view. 

Over  thy  grave,  unheeded, 

The  seasons  run  ; 
But  silence  and  noise,  passions  and  joys, 

Laughter  and  tears,  are  one  ; 
Heedless  of  all  that  is  passing 

Among  the  loved  ones  here 

Once  to  thy  heart  so  dear,  — 
Nothing  of  all  that  may  here  befall 

Shall  reach  thy  ear. 


LATER  READINGS  91 

Nothing  ?     Ah,  who  shall  affirm  it  ? 

Ah,  can  it  be 
That  all  we  know  in  this  world  below 

Can  die  in  the  memory  ? 
That  naught  of  the  past  shall  live, 

Of  the  love,  and  the  joy,  and  the  dear 

Affections  that  bound  us  here  ? 
Ah,  no  !  if  we  live,  they  as  well  will  live 

In  another  sphere. 

The  body  we  loved  shall  moulder 

And  pass  away  ; 

No  trace  or  sign  of  the  life    that  was 
thine 

In  its  earthly  form  shall  stay. 
But  the  spirit,  —  oh,  where  is  that  ? 

Gone,  like  a  spoken  word, 

Passed,  like  a  vanished  chord,  — 
Where  ?     To  that  question,  what  answer 

Was  ever  heard  ? 

Here  in  thy  grave  we  lay  thee, 

Knowing  at  least 
That  the  evil  and  strife  of  earthly  life 

For  thee  hath  ceased. 
And  of  the  life  that  is  coming, 

The  untried,  vaster  scope, 

Weeping  here,  let  us  hope 


92  A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

That  we  shall  again  be  united 
When  the  dark  gates  ope. 

And  here,  by  the  way,  I  see,  lying  be 
side  these  lines,  another  set  of  verses  on 
somewhat    the    same    line    of    thought. 
Shall  I  read  them  ? 
She.   Do. 
He. 

When  this  frail  life  is  over,  you  say, 
And  we  from  this  earth  have  passed  away, 
Where  stumbling  we  walk,  with  our  far 
thing  light 

Striving  to  pierce  through  the  infinite, 
Guessing   and   groping  with   Hope   and 

Faith 

Till  the  curtain  dark  is  drawn  by  Death, — 
Ah  !  then  all  things  which  are  dark  to  us 

here 
In  that  Life  beyond  will  be   all   made 

clear. 
Then,  we  shall  know. 

Perhaps  — 

Perhaps  ?  — 
Yes,  perhaps  we  shall  know  ;  and  then, 

perhaps, 

We  shall  know  nothing  and  silently  lapse 
Into  an  utter  nonentity, 


LATER  READINGS  93 

When  naught  we  shall  know  or  feel  or 

see, 

And  nothing  shall  even  seek  to  know, 
Content  in  a  negative  state  to  be 
From  all  Life's  painful  positives  free 
In  that  peace  and  rest  that  we  here  below 
Seek  for,  and  find  not,  and  long  for  in 

vain, 
Doomed    through   this    life  to  struggle 

and  strain, 

With  a  glimmer  of  joy  and  hope  and  light 
That  with  feeble   flashes  illumines   our 

night. 

What  do  you  hope  for  with  Faith  so  fond 
In  that  infinite  unknown  life  beyond, 
Better  than  peace  and  an  infinite  rest  ? 
Of  all  that  you  hope,  is  not  that  the  best  ? 

Is  there   anything  better  in    life   than 

sleep  ? 

And  if  Death  be  a  long,  eternal,  deep 
And  dreamless  slumber, —  no  care  or  task, 
What  better  and  sweeter  could  mortal 

ask? 

Ah,  yes,  —  perhaps,  —  and  yet,  my  friend, 
How  futile  this  life,  if  such  be  the  end  ! 


94          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Ah,  what  do  we  know  about  it  ? 
Let  us  hope  and  believe,  for  what  should 
we  do  in  our  sorrow  without  such  a  hope 
and  belief  ?  That  is  about  the  only  con 
solation  that  is  given  to  us. 

He.  All  speculations  as  to  what  may 
come  hereafter,  when  this  life  is  over, 
are  of  course  vague  and  dim,  with  no 
certainty,  and  only  such  expectations  as 
Faith  and  Hope  may  give  us.  We  can 
not  explain  what  comes  after  this  life 
more  than  what  went  before  it.  What 
were  we,  and  where  were  we,  before  we 
came  into  this  world  ?  But  it  is  a  sin 
gular  fact  that  we  never  speculate  as  to 
a  previous  life,  and  only  think  of  that  in 
the  future,  which  is  to  come  after  death 
has  taken  us  from  this.  But,  seek  as  we 
will,  the  door  is  shut  ;  all  that  we  know 
is  that  we  are  here  now,  —  where  we  were, 
and  where  we  are  going,  who  knows  ? 
"  Que  scais-je  ?  "  as  old  Montaigne's 
motto  reads. 

She.  Well,  is  there  any  use  in  specu 
lating  about  it  ?  The  infinite  "  may  be  " 
must  content  us.  With  all  these  vast 
questions  I  do  not  trouble  myself.  I  am 
here,  and  that  is  enough.  Whatever  is, 


LATER  READINGS  95 

is  right,  and  whatever  will  be,  will  be, 
and  be  right.  The  Lord's  prayer  is, 
"  Give  us  each  day  our  daily  bread,"  — 
not  give  us  to-day  to-morrow's  bread. 
To-morrow  must  take  care  of  itself,  and 
will,  doubtless.  We  cannot  do  anything 
to  alter  what  is  called  Destiny.  But 
we  do  know  what  our  duty  is,  and  that 
presses  on  us  as  the  day  goes,  and  gen 
erally  we  know  what  it  is,  —  though  at 
times  we  make  great  mistakes,  and  at 
other  times  willfully  disobey  the  duties 
we  know.  But  don't  let  us  go  on  with 
these  speculations  as  to  the  Future  or  the 
Past.  Neither  of  us  knows  anything  about 
them,  and  I  don't  want  to  have  my  mind 
disturbed  by  any  such  thoughts.  Let  us 
rather  enjoy  what  we  have.  I  don't 
think  it  was  quite  fair  in  you  to  introduce 
any  such  topics.  The  day  is  beautiful. 
Let  us  enjoy  it. 

He.  Yes.  That  would  be  best.  But 
as  I  was  turning  over  these  leaves,  my 
eye  chanced  upon  some  verses  touching 
on  some  of  these  questions. 

She.  Oh,  if  you  have  written  a  poem 
in  this  vein,  do  let  me  hear  it !  That  is 
a  different  thing  from  prosaic  specula- 


96          A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

tion  on  what  we  do  not  know  or  under 
stand.  One  has  a  right  to  dream,  how 
ever  wild  one's  dreams  may  be. 

He.  Now  I  look  at  these  verses,  they 
don't  seem  to  throw  any  light  on  what  we 
were  saying. 

She.   No  matter  !  read  them. 

He.  Well,  such  as  they  are,  here 
they  are.  They  have  only  relation  to 
the  life  to  come  after  death,  not  to  the 
life  behind,  before  birth.  They  were 
written  after  the  death  of  a  dearly 
valued  friend  :  — 

Smiling  if  I  the  days  recall 

When  Life  was  glad,  and  Hope  un 
shaken, 
Even  while  I  smile  a  tear  will  fall 

For  all  that  ruthless  Death  has  taken. 

And  what  to  thee,  in  vain  I  ask, 

Hath  Death,  the  dark,  the  silent,  given  ? 

An  infinite  sleep,  or  some  grand  task, 
Peace — Rest  —  or  all  our  hopes  call 
heaven  ? 

I  only  know  what  was  is  gone 

Beyond  all  earthly  sense  and  seeing,  — 


LATER  READINGS  97 

The  smile,  the  form,  the  touch,  the  tone, 
Have  but  a  dim  remembered  being. 

I  only  know  no  answers  come 

To  all  my  longing,  praying,  sighing, 

That  all  beyond  is  deaf,  still,  dumb, 
And  yields  to  me  no  faint  replying. 

Still  I  have  Faith,  —  for  what  were  Life, 
If  Faith  and  Hope  were  taken  from 

us? 

If  after  this  world's  strain,  toil,  strife, 
Death  should  to  silent  nothing  doom 
us? 

There,  —  somewhere, —  when  this  Life  is 

o'er, 
All   that    seems   dark   here    shall   be 

righted, 

And  with  the  loved  ones  gone  before 
We  shall  again  be  reunited. 

Better  that  higher  Hope,  Faith,  Trust, 
Vague   though   it   be,  —  howe'er   un 
certain,  — 
Than  to  believe  Life  is  but  dust 

When  Death  across  it  draws  its  cur 
tain. 


98          A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Yes,  yes  !  —  a  hundred  times 
yes  !  For  without  such  faith  and  trust 
we  should  be  like  sailless  and  rudderless 
ships,  drifting  in  the  dark  night  in  a  wide 
sea  of  doubt.  But  we  do  believe,  we  can 
not  help  believing,  say  what  we  will. 

He.  Yes,  let  us  hope,  and  have  faith. 
But  hope  is  such  an  Ignis  Fatuus,  and 
leads  us  so  wildly  astray  at  times. 

She.  I  care  not  if  it  does.  It  is  de 
lightful  even  to  hope  for  the  impossible, 
and  we  are  never  weary  of  a  certain  kind 
of  belief  that  by  some  miracle  even  our 
wildest  hope  may  be  realized.  Reason 
has  nothing  to  do  with  this  dim  condition 
of  the  mind.  Though  we  know  we  are 
perfectly  foolish  in  allowing  some  hopes 
to  come  in,  still  we  cannot  entirely  drive 
them  away.  We  argue  with  them  ;  thrust 
them  out  ;  shut  the  door  on  them,  bar  it, 
bolt  it  ;  fancy  we  have  done  with  it ;  and 
then  in  a  moment  it  stands  smiling  at  us, 
just  as  enticing  as  ever.  Hope  comes 
from  the  land  of  dreams,  invents  Arabian 
Nights,  brings  genii  and  spirits  with  it 
to  transform  all  the  world,  and  though 
Reason  laughs  at  all  these  genii  and  phan 
tasms  of  the  imagination,  there  is  always 


LATER  READINGS  99 

a  vague  somewhat  which  does  cling  to  us 
despite  our  will.  We  take  auguries  from 
all  sorts  of  things  and  events  ;  we  believe 
in  presentiments  ;  we  cut  for  fates  in 
books  ;  we  woo  luck  ;  we  wish,  when  we 
first  see  the  new  moon  ;  we  are  enchanted 
if  we  find  a  four-leaved  clover  ;  we  think 
it  brings  luck  to  pick  up  a  crooked  old  nail 
or  horseshoe  that  lies  in  our  path  ;  we 
wear  lucky  sixpences,  and  amulets  of  for 
tune.  We  know  perfectly  well  that  this  is 
all  folly,  but  still  we  have  a  sort  of  half 
faith  in  all  these  superstitions,  don't  we  ? 
He.  Of  course  we  do.  Hope  always 
stands  on  tiptoe  listening  and  longing, 
and  the  worst  or  the  best  of  it  is  that  our 
foolishest  hopes  sometimes  are  realized 
in  the  most  unexpected  way.  Are  there 
any  such  things  as  what  we  call  acci 
dents  ?  Is  not  everything  ruled  by 
law  ?  But  what  the  absolute  law  is  we 
do  not  know,  we  only  guess.  Our  fears, 
too,  have  quite  as  many  superstitions  as 
our  hopes.  We  are  afraid,  some  of  us, 
to  put  on  our  left  stocking  first.  Who 
dares  to  invite  thirteen  persons  to  table  ? 
I  have  known  serious  persons  who  took 
particular  pains  to  put  their  right  foot 


100        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

foremost  in  coming  into  the  room,  lest  it 
should  bring  ill-luck  if  they  entered  with 
the  left  foot  first.  We  think  it  will  bring 
bad  luck  if  we  see  the  new  moon  over 
the  left  shoulder,  or  accidentally  put 
three  lights  on  a  table.  More  or  less,  I 
suspect  that  everybody  has  some  pet 
superstition,  unwilling  as  he  may  be  to 
own  it.  I  admit  that  I  have  some,  but 
I  shall  not  tell  you  what  they  are;  and 
you  have  too,  have  n't  you? 

She.  Don't  ask  me  !  Don't  you  think 
I  am  superior  to  all  that  foolishness  ? 

He.  No,  honestly  I  don't. 

She.  Well,  I  am  not  going  to  be  put 
under  cross-examination  on  this  subject. 

He.  But  would  you  dare  to  set  out  on 
a  journey  on  Friday,  or  to  be  married  on 
that  day  ? 

She.  I  don't  intend  to  be  married  at 
all,  if  you  please. 

He.  But  perhaps  I  don't  please.  What 
will  you  do  then  ? 

She.  I  will  be  married  on  Friday,  and 
set  off  on  my  wedding  tour  the  same 
day. 

He.  No,  you  won't,  and  you  know  you 
won't.  Nothing  would  induce  you  to  be 


LATER  READINGS  101 

so  foolish.  What !  in  despite  of  the  Italian 
saying  — 

She.  What  is  the  Italian  saying  ? 

He.  "Ne  di  Venerdi,  ne  di  Marte, 
non  si  sposa  e  non  si  parte,"  —  not  only 
on  Friday,  but  on  Tuesday  also,  you 
must  neither  set  out  on  a  journey  nor  be 
married.  I  confess  that  I  should  not 
like  to  begin  anything  on  a  Friday.  I 
know  this  is  all  nonsense,  and  I  en 
deavored  one  day  to  prove  it  to  be  non 
sense.  So  a  friend  of  mine  began,  with 
considerable  self-assertion,  a  statue  on  a 
Friday,  to  show  his  total  disbelief  in  such 
an  idle  superstition.  He  was  particu 
larly  pompous  in  doing  this.  He  made 
all  his  preparations  on  Friday,  ordered  all 
his  irons  to  support  the  statue  and  began 
his  statue  on  Friday.  But,  unfortunately 
for  the  experiment,  after  a  fortnight  of 
hard  work,  during  which  all  went  wrong, 
to  his  great  mortification  he  was  finally 
obliged  to  pull  it  all  down  and  begin 
anew. 

She.  And  everybody  laughed  at  him, 
and  said :  "  I  told  you  so." 

He.  Of  course  they  did. 

She.  And  was  he  obstinate,  and  did  he 


102        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

renew  his  experiment  and  begin  again  on 
a  Friday  ? 

He.  No ;  he  did  not.  He  had  had 
enough  of  it.  He  bowed  down  humbly 
and  courted  Fortune  in  despite  of  his 
principles,  and  began  anew  on  Monday, 
it  being  agreed  that  Monday  is  a  lucky 
day,  and  all  went  well.  I  must  tell  you 
too  another  experience  of  mine,  in  which 
I  owed  my  life  to  my  obeying  the  super 
stition  against  setting  out  on  a  journey 
on  Friday.  That  was  the  day  when  it 
was  far  more  convenient  for  me  to  go 
than  any  other.  I  was  pressed  for  time, 
all  my  preparations  were  made,  when 
I  said  to  myself  :  "  What 's  the  use,  bet 
ter  have  all  the  luck  one  can  get.  It 
is  all  very  foolish,  but  —  but  I  will  wait 
till  to-morrow."  And  lucky  it  was  that 
I  did,  for  the  very  train  in  which  I 
should  have  been,  had  I  left  on  Friday, 
had  a  terrible  accident,  and  I  know  not 
how  many  passengers  were  killed  and 
maimed  and  ruined  for  life.  What  do 
you  say  to  that  ? 

She.  Oh,  what  a  lucky  superstition  it 
was !  If  I  had  such  experiences  I 
should  not  dare  to  do  anything  on  Friday. 


LATER  READINGS  103 

He.  But  apropos  to  what  we  were  say 
ing  a  few  moments  ago  about  our  hopes 
and  fears,  I  think  I  have  two  little  poems 
here  somewhere,  touching  upon  this  sub 
ject.  Ah,  yes  ;  here  they  are.  I  will 
read  them  to  you. 

She.  Do. 

He.  First  I  will  read  you  this,  which  is 
only  a  fear,  —  one  of  those  fears  which 
come  over  us  at  the  very  height  of  our 
happiness  ;  one  of  those  dark  thoughts 
which  suddenly  shadow  the  spirit  with 
terror,  and  make  us  feel  that  nothing  in 
life,  even  at  its  culmination  of  joy  and 
love,  is  secure. 

My  dearest  heart,  my  life,  my  joy,  my 

love, 

Even  as  I  gaze  into  thy  loving  eyes, 
And  feel  their  blessing  like  the  heavens 

above, 
At  times  the  o'erwhelming  thought  and 

fear  will  rise 

Lest   thou   be   taken  from  me,  and,  be 
reft 

Of  thy  dear  presence,  life's  sad  rem 
nant  through 


104        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

I  with  dead  memories,  graves  of  joy,  be 

left. 

Ah,  then   what  should  I  do  ?     What 
should  I  do  ? 

Pray  God  that  this  may  never,  never  be. 
And  yet,  how  vain  the   hope  !     Too 

well  I  know 
That  hour  must  come  at  last  to  you,  —  to 

me; 

We  cannot  both  together  hope  to  go. 
Death   will  not  take  us    both    into    its 

arms, 

And  bear  us  both  together  to  its  rest, 
Else  death  would  be  all  free  from  life's 

alarms, 

And   be    as   to    a  child    its    mother's 
breast. 

But  ah  !  the  fearful  thought,  like  some 

dark  cloud, 
Comes   o'er  my   spirit,    that   at   last, 

alone, 

I  may  be  left,  with  spirit  sad  and  bowed, 
Joyless  to  tread  life's  mournful  jour 
ney  on. 

Oh,  my  dear  love,  stay  with  me  to  the 
end! 


LATER  READINGS  105 

My  hope,  my  joy,  iny   life,   oh,   stay 

with  me  ! 
Till  the  dark  gates  of  death  shall  open, 

lend 
The  blessing  of  thy  love,  — my  angel 

be. 

She.  That  last  hope  is  too  selfish. 
Ah,  to  go  together  is  the  true  wish  of 
love,  —  that  neither  should  be  left  to  tread 
life's  dreary  remnant  alone  after  the 
other  is  taken.  And  yet  how  vain  to 
wish,  how  useless  to  hope,  that  any  such 
consummation  of  life  can  ever  take 
place  ! 

He.  Yes  ;  but  what  is  horrible  in  an 
ticipation,  what  is  equally  terrible  in  fact 
when  it  comes,  we  have  to  bear,  and 
Time,  the  only  assuager  of  sorrow,  finally 
throws  a  veil  over  our  deepest  griefs. 

She.  Yes  ;  but  life  is  never  the  same 
afterwards.  It  has  for  all  of  us  a  differ 
ent  aspect,  a  different  sentiment.  The 
best  of  its  melodies  are  played  in  a 
lower  and  a  minor  tone.  The  glad  lift, 
the  impassioned  utterance,  the  bounding 
hope,  the  unquestioning  joy  and  faith, 
the  confidence  in  life,  are  ours  no  more. 


106        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

We  have  to  learn  the  sadder  lesson  of 
patience.  We  hold  life's  flowers  in  our 
hand  with  a  looser  grasp,  and  almost 
expect  them  to  fall,  thankful  if  they  are 
ours  for  a  moment. 

He.  Yes  ;   life   is  only  a  black-letter 
text :  — 

Not  till  the  light  of  joy  has  passed  away, 
The   orb   of  patience  rises   full    and 

great 
To  rule  our  life  with  soft  and  shadowy 

sway, 

And  sanctify  the  ruins   wrought   by 
fate. 

When  sorrow  calls  us,  from  the  feast  we 

rise  ; 
Its  lights   are   glaring,  trivial  are  its 

smiles, 
And  Thought  walks  on  through  buried 

memories 

Like   some  cowled   monk    along    the 
tomb-strewn  aisles. 

We  wend  to  silence.     In  its  cell  we  sit 
And  read  the  mournful  missal  of  man's 
fate, 


LATER  READINGS  107 

The  sad  black-letter  text  in  which  is  writ 
E'en  the    illumined    chapter     of    the 
great. 

Girt  round  by  walls  we  never  can  o'er- 

peer, 
With  one  dark  gate  where    all    our 

pathways  end, 

Puzzled  we  stand,  in  hope  and  yet  in  fear, 
Unknowing  where  the  ceaseless  passers 
wend. 

"Farewell,"  they   say.     "To   love  and 

joy  we  go." 
We  have  not  faith,  or  we  should  smile 

again. 
But  ah,  we  beat  the  gate,  and,  wild  with 

woe, 

We  struggle  like  a  madman  with  his 
chain. 

Yet  with  this  farthing  candle  of  our  faith 
Into  the  dark,  dread,  vast  beyond  we 

peer, 
Where  each  beholds  upon  the  blank  of 

death 

The  trembling  shadows  of  his  hope  or 
fear. 


108        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Don't  let  us  go  into  these  dark 
questions,  to  which  we  none  of  us  can 
find  any  sufficient  answer  except  in  our 
hope  and  our  faith. 

He.  But  do  what  we  will,  we  cannot 
help  asking  these  questions  and  longing 
vainly  for  some  definite  answer.  Un 
less,  indeed,  we  accept  the  "  we  are 
told,"  and  calmly,  without  taking  the 
trouble  even  to  think  (which  is,  perhaps, 
of  not  much  use  after  all),  lay  our  heads 
down  on  the  steps  of  the  Church  and  take 
for  granted  all  that  it  says. 

She.  Oh,  I  am  not  going  to  allow  my 
self  to  be  drawn  into  any  religious  dis 
cussions.  I  did  not  come  out  here  into 
the  woods  for  that. 

He.  And  I  am  afraid  if  we  did  we 
should  find  ourselves  at  last  entirely  in 
the  woods,  and  utterly  lost,  not  in  the 
least  knowing  the  way  out  or  on.  So  let 
us  stay  where  we  are.  But  now  that 
we  are  in  this  mood,  let  me  read  you  a 
poem  which  is  somewhat  in  the  same 
tone  of  thought,  and  ought  to  go  with 
the  other. 

She.  Do. 


LATER  READINGS  109 

He. 

You  pray  to  God,  now  as  a  power  of  love 
Who  will  forgive  you  all  the  sins  you 

tell; 
Now    as    a    stern,    unpardoning    power 

above, 
To  all  those  sins  and  faults  implacable. 

You  make  Him  share  dominion  over  all 
With  the  dark  tempter,  unto  whom  is 

given 
The  strength  to  thwart  his  every  plan, 

and  call 

The  soul  to  hell  which  He  had  framed 
for  heaven. 

I  envy  you  your  faith,  your  fixed  belief 
That  you  the  secret  of  the   soul  pos 
sess, 

Sure  of  its  future  when  this  life,  so  brief, 
Hath  passed  away  to  utter  nothingness. 

All  that  I  know  is  that  I  nothing  know  ; 

All  is  a  vague  and  clouded  mystery. 
Whence  we  have  come,  and  whither  we 

shall  go, 

And  why  we  all  are  here  is  dark  to 
me. 


110        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

God  hath  created  man,  you  say.     To  me 
Rather  it  seems,  when  the  wide  world 

I  scan, 

With  all  the  myths  and  dreams  of  his 
tory, 

Man  hath  created  God,  and  not  God 
man ; 

Created  God  after  the  image  crude 
Of  his  own  being,  like    some  tyrant 

king, 
Whose  purpose  prayer  can  change  ;  who 

must  be  wooed 
By  self-abasement,  pain,  and  suffering. 

If  we  are  good,  our  spirits  are  not  stirred 
By  love  of  justice,  honor,  virtue,  love, 

But  for  the  sake  of  some  vague,  dim  re 
ward 
That  may  be  given  in  some  life  above. 

She.  I  am  afraid  there  is  something 
only  too  true  in  that  last  thought,  for 
surely  if  we  look  through  history  we 
find  that  man  has  always  shaped  his  God 
after  his  own  individuality,  and  given 
Him  at  all  periods  of  time  the  shape, 
form,  and  characteristic  spirit,  as  well  as 
features,  of  a  human  being. 


LATER  READINGS  111 

He.  And  now,  if  you  are  not  too  much 
bored,  I  should  like  to  read  you  another 
copy  of  verses,  as  our  grandfathers  used 
to  call  them,  before  we  quit  this  sub 
ject  and  train  of  thought.  Perhaps  it  is 
a  little  too  gloomy  and  serious  for  a  sum 
mer's  morning  like  this,  but  if  you  are 
to  hear  it  at  all,  you  may  be,  after  the 
last  poem,  somewhat  in  its  vein,  and 
might  like  to  hear  it  now. 

She.  Pray  read  it. 

He. 
I  stand  in  the  midnight  silence, 

The  throbbing  stars  are  above  me, 
And  alone  I  stand,  and  I  long  for  the 
lost 

Who  used  to  cherish  and  love  me. 
To  the  infinite  distance  beyond 

I  stretch  out  my  hands  imploring  : 
Oh,  give  me  one   word,  —  one  word,    I 
cry, 

All  my  soul  in  my  prayer  outpouring. 

With  an  infinite  longing,  a  prayer 

That  is  wordless,  I  cry,  —  with  a  yearn 
ing* 

A  hope  beyond  hope,  all  my  soul  going 
forth  : 


112         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

And  then,  with  no  answer  returning;  — 
In  its  passion  my  spirit  uplifts 

Like  a  wave  on  its  high  crest  swaying, 
All  shattered  to  fall,  with  a  baffled 
sense 

Of  the  vanity  of  all  praying. 

No  answer,  no  sign,  no  answer  ; 

Blank  silence  to  all  this  craving. 
All  nature,  all  heaven,  —  deaf,  dumb  to 
us,  — 

All  our  longing  mere  empty  raving. 
God  by  no  sign  declaring 

He  listens  to  pity  or  love  us, 
But,   leaving  us  here   in    our    ignorant 
blindness, 

Outstretches  no  hand  above  us. 

How  many  hearts  are  breaking, 

How  many  weeping  and  sighing, 
How  many  darkly  despairing, 

How  many  starving  and  dying  ; 
How  many  praying  and  praying, 

With  wildest  imploring  ;  but  never 
Comes  back  the  least  answering  word  or 
sign, 

And  Death's  secret  is  kept  forever. 


LATER  READINGS  113 

The  mystery  who  can  unriddle 

By  which  we  are  ever  haunted  ? 
To  Life's  terrible  question  —  Death's  in 
finite  puzzle  — 

What  answer  was  ever  granted  ? 
Wherever  we  go  it  pursues  us, 

When  we  seek  to  grasp  it  it  flies  us, 
And  despite  all  our  longings,  our  ques 
tions,  our  prayers, 

The  secret  forever  defies  us. 

All  Nature  is  unrelenting, 

Tears  and  prayers  are  alike  unavailing 
To  touch  her    pity.     Cold,    cruel,   and 

hard, 

She  heeds  not  our  pain  or  our  ailing. 
To  the  good,  to  the  bad,  as  by  chance, 
Fates  gives  both  her  stripes   and  ca 
resses  ; 
Do  all  that  we   can,  what  avails  it  at 

last? 
As  she  chooses,  she  curses  or  blesses. 

Where,  then,  shall  we  turn  in  our  grief 
When    life's     burdens    upon    us    are 

lying  ? 

When  despair  at    the    heart's    door  is 
knocking, 


114         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

And  to  prayer  there  is  no  replying  ? 
Ah,  well  !     What  we  know  is  nothing, 
What    we   hope    for,    almost    beyond 

hoping  ; 
But  still  let  us  hope,  and  let  faith  be  our 

staff 
While  here  we  are  blindly  groping. 

We  have  but  to  bow  our  heads, 

And  humbly  accept  what  is  given. 
The  veil  of  the  future  no  mortal  can  lift, 

Nor  show  us  a  glimpse  of  it  even. 
Life  to  come  is  a  guess,  at  the  best, 

At  a  vague  perfection  of  beauty. 
But  the  life  we  have  here  is  ours,  and  we 
know 

That  its  law  should  be  love  and  duty. 

She.  Yes,  that  is  sad  enough,  and  true 
enough.  What  do  we  really  know  about 
anything  ?  But  still  one  must  have  faith 
in  something  and  hope  for  something, 
though  it  passes  all  understanding.  All 
nature  is  deaf  to  our  longing  and  dumb 
to  our  asking,  as  much  in  our  griefs  as  in 
our  joys.  It  never  really  sympathizes 
with  us,  except,  perhaps,  in  our  calmest 
moods.  To  our  passions  and  longings  and 
cravings,  it  has  no  answering  voice. 


LATER  READINGS  115 

He.  Ay  ;  and  not  only  to  our  deep  emo 
tions  of  passion  or  sorrow  it  does  not 
respond,  but  often  seems  to  stand  before 
us  calm,  silent,  with  a  tantalizing  smile, 
almost  of  scorn,  or  to  answer  to  our  ap 
peals  with  a  discordant  tone  that  jars  on 
all  our  sensibilities.  For  instance,  — 

'Neath  the  tree  where  we  first  told  our 

love 

Despairing  I  stand,  all  alone, 
All  alone  in  this  dear,  happy  grove, 

And  weep  for  the  days  that  are  flown. 
Crying  out  in  my  bitterest  grief, 
Is  there  no  one  to  give  me  relief 
And  help  me  this  sorrow  to  bear  ? 

And  I  know  there  is  no  one,  —  not  one  ; 
There  is  nothing  but  Nature,  and  what 

does  she  care 

For  the  past  and  the  lost  and  the  gone  ? 
What  help  can  she  give  ?  All  the  sky, 

all  the  air, 
Is   as  gleamingly   happy,  as  cloudlessly 

fair, 

As  if  pain,  death,  and  grief  were  un 
known. 

No  sorrow,  no  sadness  is  hers  ! 
Through  the  leaves  up  the  hillside  a  soft 
whisper  stirs, 


116        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

The  banks  with  gay  wild-flowers  are 

strewn  ; 
The   birds   are  all    singing    their    fresh 

matin  song, 

And  the  brook  babbling  gayly  goes  purl 
ing  along 

To  gladden  each  pebble  and  stone. 
All  is  sunshine  and  springtime,  all  Nature 

rejoices, 
No  voice  but  of  gladness  I  hear  in  her 

voices, 

Not  a  note,  not  a  tone 
Of  sorrow  or  sadness,  —  but  all   things 

cry  out 
In  their  freshness  and  joy  with  a  jubilant 

shout,  — 
And  I  so  alone, 
So  wretched  that  all  I  can  think  of  is 

death 
And  the  days  that  are  flown. 

Oh,  Nature,   so  silent,    so  heartless,  so 

cruel, 

Have  you  nothing  to  me  to  say  ? 
I  know  but  too  well  there  is  no  more  re 
newal 

For  all  that  has  passed  away. 
But  why  be  so  glad  and  so  gay, 


LATER  READINGS  117 

As  if  all  of  this  life  was  pure  joy, 

With  sorrow  and  death  coming  never 
The  fondest  and  dearest  to  sever, 

Unrelenting  to  blast  and  destroy  ? 

Why  torture  my  heart  with  your  glad 
ness, 
Why  sing  with  such  careless  delight, 

While  my  soul,  in  the  depths  of  its  sad 
ness, 
Is  dark  with  the  darkness  of  night  ?  — 

Of  a  night  when  not  even  a  star 
Can  be  seen  to  illume 

In  the  heavens  so  clouded,  so  far, 
Its  hopeless  and  terrible  gloom. 

If  you  cannot  console  me,  oh,  help  me  to 

bear, 

At  least,  what  I  cannot  forget. 
Weep  with  me,  storm  with  me,  come  to 

me  and  share 

Life's    darkness    and    grief    and    re 
gret  ; 

Tell  over  with  me  all  the  memories  dear, 
All  the   joys   that   are   lost,  that  are 

past  ; 

Oh,  be  not  so  cold,  irresponsively  fair, 
Lay  your  hand  on  my  breast,  give  me 
rest,  give  me  rest ; 


118        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Cloud  the  skies,  all  too  bright  in  their  joy 

and  their  light, 
And  with  tears  all  the  world  overcast. 

She.  I  am  afraid  we  have  got  into  too 
sad  a  vein.  The  day  is  too  bright  for 
such  strains,  for  it  is  somewhat  like  what 
you  have  described  in  this  poem.  And  I 
am  happy  to  say  that  I  see  no  thunder 
cloud  rising  yet,  though  it  may  come  upon 
us,  and  will  be  sure  to  if  you  write  a 
poem  about  it.  See  if  you  can't  find  some 
poem  in  which  you  take  a  little  more 
happy  view  of  life.  I  think  we  have 
been  sad  long  enough.  I  should  like  to 
hear  something  more  paradisiacal  now. 
Can't  you  transport  me  into  some  ideal 
spot,  where  there  is  nothing  to  weep  over 
and  mourn  over  or  regret  ? 

He.  I  am  afraid  all  these  latter  verses 
are  wearisomely  sad.  I  will  look  and 
see  if  I  cannot  find  something  a  little 
less  gloomy.  Ah,  yes  !  here  is  one  that 
perhaps  you  will  find  as  much  too  ideal 
as  the  others  were  too  sadly  real.  At  all 
events,  it  will  serve  for  a  change,  for  an 
other  kind  of  movement  after  all  these 
largos  and  adagios. 


LATER  READINGS  119 

Smile,  dearest,  smile  ! 

Thy  love  to  me 
Is  life's  enchanted  isle 

In  its  deep  sea. 

Stately  and  tall, 

There  grows  the  palm  ; 
There  peace  broods  over  all, 

Beauty  and  calm. 

Whispers  the  wind, 

Murmurs  the  sea  ; 
All  is  so  sweet  and  kind, 

There  I  would  be. 

Blue  are  the  skies, 

Fathomless,  deep, 
Softly  the  clouds  that  rise 

Over  them  sweep. 

All  there  is  bloom, 

Tenderness,  grace, 
Never  the  thought  of  doom 

Haunts  that  blest  place. 

No  storms'  wild  rage, 

No  toil,  no  strife  ; 
There  is  the  golden  age, 

There  love  and  life. 


120         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Worn  out  with  care, 

Weary,  oppressed, 
Let  me  seek  solace  there, 

Let  me  find  rest. 

She.  Well,  that  is  an  ideal  land,  such 
as  we  never  see  ;  however,  we  long  for  it. 

He.  Oh,  yes.     Love  finds  it  easily. 

She.  If  you  say  so,  of  course  it  is  so, 
for  I  suppose  you  know.  But,  unfor 
tunately,  I  am  very  ignorant  of  those 
southern  seas  and  enchanted  isles. 

He.  I  do  not  profess  to  know  anything 
about  it,  but  I  guess,  I  fancy,  I  imagine 
there  must  be  some  such  Elysium,  —  at 
least  in  dreams  there  is,  and  why  not  in 
reality,  —  where  the  breeze  is  ever  mild 
and  the  air  ever  perfumed  ;  where  the 
flowers  grow  without  attendance  or  care  ; 
where  even  the  rain  sings  as  it  falls  ; 
where  nothing  is  harsh,  and  all  things  are 
perfect,  as  they  are  in  the  Elysian  fields. 

She.  Perhaps  it  was  in  the  garden 
where  Adam  first  met  Eve,  and  she  gave 
him  that  fatal  apple.  I  suppose  it  must 
have  been  a  place  into  which  the  devil 
never  entered,  or  at  least  before  he  en 
tered  ;  afterwards,  you  know,  there  was 


LATER  READINGS  121 

a  terrible  shindy.  Cain  got  terribly 
angry  about  something,  I  don't  know  pre 
cisely  what. 

He.  Yes  ;  I  think  I  have  heard  of  it, 
and  that  our  progenitor  found  consolation 
in  a  woman  of  Nod.  Where  Nod  is, 
and  where  the  woman  came  from,  and  how 
she  happened  to  be  there,  and  who  made 
her,  are  questions  I  cannot  answer,  but  I 
have  always  felt  the  greatest  interest  in 
it  and  her.  The  nearest  approximation  I 
have  ever  made  to  the  laud  of  Nod  is  a 
dreamland,  and  perhaps  the  woman 
there  too  was  a  dream.  At  all  events,  I 
cannot  help  desiring  to  know  a  little 
more  about  her,  if  only  because  she  was 
our  earliest  ancestress. 

She.  Then  she  must  have  been  beauti 
ful,  as  we  have  already  agreed. 

He.  You  know  it  was  awkward  for 
Cain  to  have  nobody  to  marry,  — not  even 
a  sister. 

She.  Yes,  rather,  I  suppose.  But  who 
was  this  woman  of  Nod  ?  I  believe  you 
invented  her. 

He.  On  the  contrary,  she  invented  me. 
As  for  who  she  was,  I  refer  you  to  Gen 
esis. 


122         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

She.  I  shall  read  it  carefully. 

He.  And  I  hope  you  will  understand  it. 
As  for  the  first  chapters,  about  the  gen 
erations  of  men,  I  confess  I  do  not,  and 
I  see  no  light  as  to  who  our  original  an 
cestress  was,  whether  we  came  from  Seth, 
or  from  Cain  and  the  woman  of  Nod, 
and  whether  Eve's  name  was  not  Adam. 

She.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

He.  Why,  you  remember  that  in  one 
account  of  creation  there,  God  created 
them  male  and  female,  and  called  them 
Adam,  don't  you  ?  And  in  that  last 
account  there  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
any  Cain  or  any  Abel,  unless  Cainan,  the 
grandson  of  Seth,  was  he. 

She.  Don't  ask  me  what  I  remember, 
for  I  remember  nothing  about  any  of 
them  except  what  everybody  knows  about 
Adam  and  Eve  and  Cain  and  Abel,  and 
I  don't  wish  to  talk  about  them,  or  think 
about  them  here. 

He.  Well,  you  remember  Paradise  at 
least,  and  how  charming  it  was  until 
that  event  of  the  apple.  With  your  per 
mission,  I  am  going  to  take  you  there, 
just  for  a  moment. 

She.  Do,  I  beg  you. 


LATER  READINGS  123 

He. 

'T  was  in  the  lovely  month  of  May  ; 
Clear  was  the  heaven's  azure  tent, 
Save  where  some  cloudlet,  lost,  astray, 
Loitering  along  its  blue  field  went ; 
The  world  was  sown   with  flowers  ;  the 

breeze, 
All   perfumed,    stirred    the    blossoming 

trees  ; 

And  o'er  the  green  path  through  the  wood 
A  tender  spirit  seemed  to  brood, 
As  we  two  wandered,  idly,  slow, 

With    throbbing  hearts,   not   quite  at 

ease,  — 
Ah,   dearest  !    yes,    you    know,  —  you 

know,  — 
'T  was  not  so  very  long  ago,  — 

Beneath  these  silent,  shadowy  trees. 

More  than  we  had  what  cared  we  for  ? 

We  loved,  and  did  not  that  suffice 
A  light  on  everything  to  pour 

As  pure  as  that  of  Paradise  ? 
The   world  was   fresh   with  youth    and 

spring  ; 

What  had  the  orioles  then  to  sing 
We  did  not  know  as  well  as  they, 
And  better,  too  !  —  for  it  was  May, 


124        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

And  we  were  young,  and  scarcely  knew 

A  wish  beyond  the  passing  hour, 
And  both  our  hearts  were  opening  too, 
And  glowing  with  love's  tender  hue, 
Like  any  opening  flower. 

And  there  it  was  our  love  we  told, 

With  many  an  inner  hope  and  doubt, 
But  once  't  was  said,  we  grew  more  bold, 

And  love  put  all  our  fears  to  rout. 
Birds  sang  ;  the  woods  their  light  leaves 

shook, 
With  glad,   gay  voice   laughed  out  the 

brook, 

And  all  the  world  around,  above, 
Cried  out  to  us  :  Love,  only  love. 
Ah,  dearest !  yes,  you  know  they  did  ; 

No  voice  of  nature  there 
Our  happy  troth  of  love  forbid, 
Our  happy  utterances  chid, 

All  seemed  its  bliss  to  share. 

There  ;  there  is  no  mourning  in  that,  is 
there? 

She.  It  is  charming  ;  and  I  hope  all 
this  happiness  lasted,  for  when  he  uttered 
what  he  did,  you  know,  he  was  still  under 
the  spell  and  the  charm.  The  mourn- 


LATER  READINGS  125 

ing,  I  suppose,  came  in  much  later,  if  it 
came  at  all,  as  I  hope  it  did  not.  For 
my  own  part,  I  am  happy  to  leave  them 
where  they  are.  I  do  not  wish  to  fore 
cast  the  possibilities  of  the  future.  I 
confess  I  was  afraid  that  some  sadness 
would  come  in  at  the  end. 

He.  Sadness  always  comes  in  at  the 
end  of  everything.  Life  at  such  heights 
does  not  last.  But  I  think  we  can  leave 
them  there  to  wander  in  their  Elysi 
um  without  forecasting  or  intruding. 
Whether  that  day,  bright  and  clear  as  it 
was,  ended  in  a  thunderstorm,  or,  worse, 
in  a  gray  mist,  I  know  not,  and  care  not. 
Nor  do  I  care  whether  Cain  killed  Abel  the 
next  day,  and  I  am  perfectly  willing  to 
say  that  if  he  did,  he  probably  knew  why 
he  did,  though  I  don't.  Perhaps  it  had 
something  to  do  with  the  woman  of  Nod. 

She.  Oh,  don't  let  us  talk  any  more 
about  any  of  those  people,  but  rather 
read  me  something  else.  You  see  that  I 
am  like  the  daughter  of  the  Horse-leech, 
who  always  said,  Give  !  give  !  When  I 
looked  into  that  mysterious  book  of  yours 
you  showed  me,  I  saw  something  there 
about  hopes  and  fears.  If  it  is  not  too 
sad,  will  you  read  it  to  me  ? 


126        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

He.  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  very  gay, 
but,  such  as  it  is,  here  it  is  at  your  service. 
At  all  events,  it  has  more  to  do  with 
hopes  than  with  fears,  if  I  remember  it 
right. 

She.  If  you  remember  it  right  ?  I  like 
that.  You  know  that  you  remember 
every  word  of  it. 

He.  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind.  You 
don't  suppose  I  burthen  my  memory 
with  all  the  rubbish  I  write.  Gott  be- 
wahr  !  or,  as  my  English  friend  trans 
lated  it,  God  beware  !  I  have  some 
thing  better  to  do,  I  hope,  than  that ;  nor 
do  I  believe  I  could  repeat  by  memory  a 
single  poem  of  all  that  I  have  written. 
The  fact  is  that  I  thrust  them  away,  and 
try  to  forget  all  about  them,  so  that  when 
I  look  over  them  I  possibly  may  put  my 
self  in  the  position  of  a  third  person,  and 
exercise  a  little  of  my  judgment  upon 
them.  I  scribble  them  on  all  sorts  of 
fragments  of  paper,  too.  That  is  a  fad 
of  mine.  A  great  white,  spotless  sheet 
almost  frightens  me.  It  seems  like  a 
sort  of  challenge.  But  with  any  old, 
worthless  sheet  I  feel  more  at  ease,  more 
familiar,  more,  as  it  were,  in  my  dressing- 


LATER  READINGS  127 

gown.  I  don't  think  I  could  sit  down 
in  a  dress  coat  and  white  choker,  and 
take  out  a  clean,  beautiful,  hot-pressed 
sheet  of  paper  and  write  what  you  call 
a  poem  on  it,  of  malice  prepense,  as  it 
were. 

She.  Well,  but  the  poem. 

He.  Here  it  is. 

'Tis  the  postman's  knock  I  hear. 

What  has  he  come  to  bring  ? 
Hope  looks  out  of  my  heart,  and  fear 

Of  nothing  —  of  everything. 
A  foolish  hope  of  I  know  not  what  ; 
An  idle  fear  of  nothing  begot, 

That  still  in  my  heart  will  spring 

With  an  anxious  questioning. 

Every  hour  at  my  heart 

Knocks  a  fear  and  a  hope,  — 
Half  glad,  half  sad  ;  at  the  summons  I 
start, 

And  the  door  to  hope's  promise  ope,  — 
And     there     Disappointment      sneering 

stands, 
Only  to  show  me  his  empty  hands 

With  his  cheating  horoscope, 

And  no  star  in  the  heaven's  whole  cope. 


128        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Yet  under  all  fears  will  spring 

A  hope  that  I  cannot  quell, 
That  the  very  next  knock  may  bring 

The  surprise  of  a  miracle. 
Some  Ginn  from  the  world  of  dreams  to 

say  : 

"  Order,   great   master,  your  slave  will 
obey. 

There  is  nothing  impossible, 

As  we  spirits  know  full  well." 

And  then  I  shall  answer,  —  oh,  what, 

What  shall  I  answer  ?     Who  knows  ? 
Make  the  whole  world  for  me  what  it  is 
not, 

Make  it  a  world  of  rose  ; 
Make  it  what  dreamers  have  dreamt  it 

might  be, 
When  life  and  love  are  in  sympathy, 

And  beauty  forever  flows, 

And  hope  to  reality  grows. 

Make  it  both  young  and  old  ; 

Make  it  both  gentle  and  strong  ; 
Sweep  away  care  to  the  devil's  fold, 

Purge  all  this  life  from  wrong. 
Lift  me,  set  joy  on  the  mountains, 
Till  life  from  its  myriad  fountains 


LATER  READINGS  129 

Fill  all  the  earth  with  its  song, 
While  the  angels  its  chorus  prolong. 

Not  from  one  only,  —  from  all 
Lift  the  great  burden  of  life  ; 

Strip  from  the  weary  world  its  pall 
Of  sorrow  and  pain  and  strife  ; 

Spread  the  broad  banner  of  peace, 

Bid  all  life's  cruelty  cease 
That  now  in  the  world  is  rife, 
And  strikes  at  the  heart  like  a  knife. 

Dream  of  wild  dreams,  not  to  be, — 

Not  to  be  here,  at  least. 
Ah,  hope's  mirage  !     Shall  we  see 

Thy  perfection  when  life  has  ceased  ? 
Will  the  promise  so  dear,  so  ideal, 
In  the  world  of  the  future  be  real, 

When  the  soul  from  this  world  is  re 
leased, 

And  humanity's  hunger  appeased  ? 

Perhaps,  though  I  see  not  how, 

For  the  knocking  of  doubt  and  fear, 

Beating  forever,  dull  and  low, 
At  the  door  of  my  heart  I  hear. 

Is  it  the  knock  of  some  mighty  Ginn, 

Or  an  angel's  or  devil's  now  coming  in  ? 


130        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

An  angel  to  wipe  away  every  tear, 
Or  a  fiend,  with  his  old  habitual  sneer, 
To  tempt  us  to  death  and  sin  ? 

She.  I  don't  think  you  quite  knew 
what  you  wanted.  But  no  matter.  If 
we  are  to  have  a  visit  from  the  other 
world,  pray  let  us  have  a  Ginn.  I  have 
a  longing  to  see  a  Ginn,  for  I  was 
brought  up  on  "The  Arabian  Nights," 
and  I  know  they  can  do  anything  they 
please. 

He.  You  mean  «  The  Arabian  Nights  " 
as  we  read  it  in  the  old  English  version  ; 
but,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  in  the  original  it 
certainly  was  not  written  for  delicate 
ears.  There  has  been  a  translation  of 
this  of  late  years  into  English,  but  I 
recommend  you  not  to  look  into  it, — 
Burton's,  —  but  if  you  see  the  cover  of  it, 
let  that  suffice.  Guardi  e  passi. 

She.  Are  we  ever  visited  by  spirits  of 
any  kind  —  good  or  evil  —  from  the  un 
known  world  of  mystery  ?  My  notion  is 
that  they  are  born  of  ourselves,  and  are 
only  haunting  ghosts  of  our  desires, 
exhalations  rising  up  with  or  without 
our  call,  like  those  that  came  from  the 


LATER  READINGS  131 

Fisherman's  jar,  and  assuming  form  be 
fore  us. 

He.  I  am  really  very  sorry,  but  I  can 
not  answer  that  question  satisfactorily, 
because  I  never  saw  a  spirit.  Stop ! 
when  I  say  I  never  saw  a  spirit,  I  mean 
with  my  bodily  eyes  and  when  I  was 
awake.  In  my  dreams  I  have  seen  many 
a  one,  and  the  other  night  I  had  a  long 
visit  from  a  Ginn,  or  something  that  said 
it  was  a  Ginn  ;  and,  for  all  I  know,  it  was 
one. 

She.  And  what  did  he  say  ? 

He.  I  am  afraid  he  was  a  very  tempt 
ing  spirit.  However,  you  must  decide. 
I  will  read  to  you  a  little  record  made 
the  next  morning  of  the  chief  things  he 
said  to  me.  No  ;  on  the  whole,  I  won't 
read  it  now.  I  see  that  it  is  long,  and, 
I  am  afraid,  rather  prosy,  and  does  not 
quite  do  justice  to  my  Ginn.  I  will  read 
it  some  other  time. 

She.  Some  other  time  never  comes. 
We  are  told,  "  Seize  the  present  by  the 
forelock,"  whatever  that  may  be. 

He.  "Seize  Time"  is  it  not?  Poor 
old  fellow,  he  is  bald  enough  behind,  but 
according  to  all  the  representations  of 


132         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

him  by  painters  and  poets,  he  has  one 
lock  left  on  his  forehead,  and  that  is 
what  we  are  requested  to  seize  ;  why,  I 
don't  know. 

She.  Yes,  you  do  ;  it  is  to  stop  him, 
and  enable  you  to  break  his  hour-glass. 

He.  So  it  is. 

She.  But  about  the  Ginn.  I  prefer 
him  to  old  Father  Time. 

He.  No,  not  to-day,  to-morrow.  Sit 
ting  too  long  at  any  banqueting-table, 
although  you  are  provided  with  the 
most  exquisite  of  viands  and  the  most  de 
licious  of  wines  (as  of  course  you  have 
been  to-day),  is  sure  to  produce  an  in 
digestion.  You've  had  enough  for  to 
day,  and  more  than  enough,  and  so  have 
I.  Let  us  go  and  wander  about  through 
these  delightful  woods.  I  can  show  you 
the  haunts  of  fairies  under  the  cool,  green 
shadows,  and  pure,  deep  wells  where  the 
Naiads  bathe,  and  groves  where  the 
Dryads  nestle,  and  beds  of  wild-flowers 
on  which  Titania  might  sleep.  These 
woods  are  full  of  wonders  to  any  one  who 
has  the  eye  to  see  them. 

She.  Yes,  to  any  one  who  has  the  eye 
to  see  them  and  the  soul  to  appreciate 


LATER  READINGS  133 

them.  Nature  to  man  is  what  he  is. 
We  only  find  what  we  bring.  The  see 
ing  is  in  the  spirit,  not  the  eye,  and  all 
things  take  the  shape  and  color  of  the 
mind. 

He.  I  have  a  little  poem,  in  which  I 
have  endeavored  to  embody  that  idea, 
and  I  will  read  it  to  you  some  day,  if  you 
like. 

She.  Read  it  now. 

He.  I  have  n't  it  here. 

She.  Well,  will  you  bring  it  to-morrow 
and  read  it,  —  and  the  Ginn  ? 

He.  Yes. 

She.  You  promise  ? 

He.  I  promise. 

She.  Well,  in  that  case,  we  will  make 
a  pause  for  to-day,  and  perhaps  it  will 
be  better  so.  And  to-morrow,  at  the 
same  hour  and  the  same  place,  we  will 
meet  again,  and  you  will  bring  some 
more  poems.  Will  you  not  ?  And  one 
word  more  :  you  must  forgive  me  for 
all  my  apparent  flippancy  in  what  I  have 
said,  and  for  my  foolish  comments  and 
criticisms.  Believe  me,  my  clear  friend, 
your  poems  have  often  touched  me 
deeply,  and  I  cannot  fitly  thank  you  for 


134        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

your  kindness  in  reading  them  to  me. 
In  fact,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  deeply 
they  have  touched  me,  and  all  my  flip 
pancy  is  but  a  veil  thrown  often  over 
myself  to  conceal  what  I  scarcely  dared 
to  own.  Put  it  down  to  my  shyness  and 
inability  to  express  myself,  won't  you  ? 
Pray  do.  There  are  times  when  we 
cannot,  we  dare  not,  give  expression  to 
what  moves  us  within,  and  we  strive  to 
throw  off  our  feelings  by  a  laugh  or  a 
banter  when  tears  are  too  near,  and  we 
dare  not  give  way  to  our  impulses.  You 
will  make  all  excuses  for  me,  won't  you  ? 

He.  You  do  not  need  them,  I  assure 
you.  I  think  we  know  each  other  and 
can  trust  each  other. 

She.  And  you  will  bring  me  some  more 
poems  and  read  them  to  me  to-morrow  ? 

He.  Certainly  I  will,  if  you  really  wish 
it.  But  we  have  had  enough  for  to-day, 
and  now  let  us  drop  the  curtain  and  enjoy 
the  entr'acte  by  wandering  through  the 
woods  and  breathing  this  pure,  delightful 
air.  And  I  will  order  Monsieur  Cob 
web  to  get  his  weapons  in  his  hand,  and 
kill  you  a  red-hipped  humble-bee  on  the 
top  of  a  thistle,  and  bring  you  the  honey 
bag.  Will  that  satisfy  you  ? 


LATER  READINGS  135 

She,  Yes,  provided  you  also  bring 
Peasblossom  and  Mustard  Seed  and 
sweet  Bully  Bottom  and  his  company. 
Then,  indeed,  it  will  be  "  a  most  cour 
ageous  day  —  a  most  happy  hour  ! " 

[So  finished  that  day's  reading.  The 
next  morning,  at  the  same  hour  and  in 
the  same  place,  they  met,  according  to 
agreement.  It  does  not  do  for  me,  for 
I  am  only  an  intruder,  a  chiel  taking 
notes,  to  say  how  pretty  she  looked,  — 
lovely,  I  ought  to  say,  —  and  how  sweetly 
she  smiled  as  she  greeted  him.  She  be 
gan  the  conversation.] 

She.  Well,  you  are  as  good  as  your 
word.  Here  you  are,  as  you  promised  to 
be,  and  with  more  poems,  I  hope. 

He.  Did  not  you  know  I  should  be  ? 

She.  H'm,  h'm  !  I  hoped  —  I  did  not 
quite  trust  —  poets  are  very  slippery  fel 
lows. 

He.  How  did  you  suppose  I  could  break 
such  a  promise  ?  In  the  first  place,  you 
were  to  be  here,  and  in  the  next  place, 
you  had  spread  the  glamour  of  your  flat 
tery  over  me  by  asking  me  to  read  more 


136        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

verses  to  you.  Did  any  poet  or  poet 
aster  ever  refuse  such  inducements  and 
turn  his  back  to  such  an  invitation  ? 

She.  And  now  that  all  the  proper  pre 
liminary  flourishes  have  been  made,  sup 
pose  we  begin.  Let  it  be  conceded  that 
I  am  the  most  beautiful  of  beings,  the 
most  flattering  of  women,  and  you  are 
the  perfectest  of  poets. 

He.  I  never  said  either  the  one  thing  or 
the  other. 

She.  Then  you  do  not  admit  that  I  am 
the  most  beautiful  of  beings  ? 

He.  I  only  objected  that  I  did  not  say 
so.  Whatever  I  may  think,  I  did  not 
put  those  thoughts  into  words.  Of 
course  I  know  that  I  am  the  perfectest 
of  poets,  and  that  nothing  ever  was  so 
faultless  in  thought  and  form  and  ex 
pression  as  these  verses  of  mine,  and  that 
the  world  is  utterly  foolish  and  miserably 
mean  not  to  acknowledge  this.  But 
somehow  or  other,  mortifying  as  it  is, 
the  world  has  not  as  yet  recognized 
their  wonderful  charm.  Posterity,  of 
course,  will,  but  I  don't  know  that  I  shall 
be  any  better  for  that. 

She.  You  should  take  a  return  ticket, 


LATER  READINGS  137 

and  come  back  unexpectedly  and  see. 
Wreaths  and  laurels  are,  for  the  most 
part,  laid  by  the  world  upon  the  grave, 
not  upon  the  living  head. 

He.  Oh,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  we  get 
what  we  deserve  in  this  world  while  we 
are  living.  Nay,  perhaps  I  should  say 
at  times  a  good  deal  more,  but  at  all 
events  an  ample  and  hearty  recognition 
of  our  merits  as  authors.  For  instance, 
I  took  up  a  little  book  this  morning, 
and  in  the  fly  leaves  at  the  end  I  found  a 
series  of  extracts  from  numerous  notices 
of  some  recent  American  books  in  vari 
ous  American  papers,  and  I  confess  I 
was  as  much  surprised  as  delighted  on 
reading  them.  I  knew  that  some  of  the 
American  writers  were  very  clever  and 
amusing,  but  I  confess  that  I  had  no  idea 
that  some  of  the  writers  of  novelettes  and 
short  stories  possessed  such  an  amazing 
power  and  genius.  I  find  in  three  pages 
of  notices,  given  to  three  authors,  that 
one  —  a  lady,  of  course  —  "  has  imagina 
tion,  breadth,  and  a  daring  and  courage 
oftenest  spoken  of  as  masculine  ;  "  more 
over,  that  she  is  "  exquisitely  ideal,  and 
her  ideals  are  of  an  exalted  order  ; "  that 


138         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

she  "  has  made  a  conquest  so  complete 
and  astonishing  as  at  once  to  give  her 
fame  ;  "  that  she  has  "  wealth  of  im 
agination  and  exuberance  of  striking 
language,"  "straightforward  grace  that 
captures  the  sympathy  of  the  reader," 
"  freshness  of  feeling  and  a  mingling  of 
pathos  and  humor  which  are  simply  de 
licious."  I  find  also  that  the  next  author 
whose  works  are  noticed  "may  easily 
become  the  novelist-laureate "  (what 
ever  that  may  be)  ;  that  "  she  strikes  a 
new  and  richly  loaded  vein;"  that  she 
"  has  a  wealth  of  womanly  love  and  ten 
derness."  The  third  author  noticed  has 
"a  portfolio  of  delightsome  studies," 
"  musings  on  a  golden  granary  full  to  the 
brim,"  "  true  insight,  polished  irony,  a 
light  and  indescribable  touch  which  lifts 
you  over  a  whole  sea  of  froth  and  foam" 
"  to  the  true  heart  and  soul  of  the 
theme  ;  "  one  of  his  books  is  pronounced 
a  "  noble  volume,"  with  "  rare  fascina 
tion  of  style  and  thought,"  "  delicacy  of 
discrimination  and  appreciation,"  "con 
summate  art  ; "  it  "  reports  perfectly  and 
with  exquisite  humor  all  the  fugacious 
and  manifold  emotions,"  and  is,  in  a 


LATER  READINGS  139 

word,  "bewitching."  All  this  may  be 
very  true.  I  do  not  deny  it,  for  I  have 
never  read  these  astonishing  works.  All 
I  have  to  say  is  that  no  greater  praise, 
nor  more  peculiar  expressions  of  it,  can 
be  given  to  the  —  as  yet  supposed  to  be 
—  greatest  of  English  writers.  I  think 
at  least  that  the  authors  of  these  works 
must  be  satisfied,  and  perhaps  blush  at 
these  extraordinary  eulogiums,  if  authors 
can  blush.  But  at  all  events,  they  can 
not  complain  that  they  have  not  received 
while  living  an  enthusiastic  recognition 
of  the  great  merit  of  their  works. 
What  will  happen  after  they  are  dead, 
who  knows  ?  Death  has  something  sa 
cred  in  it,  and  often  begets  exaggeration 
of  the  merits  of  those  who  are  gone. 
I  am  generally  surprised  to  find,  as  I 
always  do  in  all  obituaries,  what  a  won 
derful  genius,  what  an  able  statesman, 
what  a  "  supreme  "  poet  (that,  I  believe, 
is  the  correct  epithet),  X  was.  He 
seemed  to  me  to  be  rather  a  common 
place  man  until  he  died. 

She.  Yes,  death  sanctifies  everything. 
Seen  through  that  veil,  even  the  harshest 
facts  of  life  have  a  softer  and  kindlier 


140        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

aspect,  and  are  subdued  into  tenderer 
light.  But  the  honors  and  praises  of  the 
world  come  but  too  often  too  late,  when 
the  spirit  they  would  have  cheered  is 
gone,  when  the  ear  that  would  have 
heard  them  with  gratitude  and  delight 
is  beyond  the  reach  of  human  words. 
We  miss  so  many  opportunities  in  life  to 
do  kind  actions.  We  are  so  chary  of 
our  praise.  We  are  sometimes  too  shy 
to  utter  what  lies  in  our  hearts.  We  dis 
trust  our  impulses  to  say  even  kind  words 
until  it  is  too  late.  Out  of  mere  mod 
esty  and  false  shame  we  often  refrain 
from  giving  voice  to  our  feelings. 

He.  Yes,  yes  ;  undoubtedly,  as  you 
say,  the  honors  and  praises  are  showered 
on  the  dead  which  would  have  cheered 
them  living. 

Too  late,  too  late,  your  honors  and  your 

praise. 
Could  you  not  speak  ere  death  had  closed 

the  ear 
And  stilled   the   heart  that  would  have 

leaped  to  hear  ? 
What  is  the  use  that  now,  too  late,  you 


LATER  READINGS  141 

The  tardy  monument,  and  fling  your  lays 
Upon  the  senseless  clay,  that  joy  or  fear 
Or  loud  applause  or  blame  or  critic  sneer 
Can  reach  not  where  he  walks  beyond 

life's  ways  ? 

While  here  alive  and  sensitive  he  went, 
Unto  his  living  heart  your  words  had  sent 
A  thrill  of  joy  his  pathway  to  illume  ; 
Now,  when  your  praise  and  honors  all  are 

vain, 
What  serves  it  that  your  useless  wreaths 

are  lain 
Upon  his  grave  to  deck  his  silent  tomb  ? 

She.  Ah,  what  serves  it,  indeed  !  To 
console,  perhaps,  the  friends  who  are  left 
behind.  But  what  avails  it  to  him  who  is 
gone  ?  Too  late  is  a  terribly  sad  lesson 
and  reproach. 

He.  As  you  were  saying,  death  sancti 
fies,  but  memory  enhances  what  we  have 
lost,  and  art  embalms.  The  charms  that 
life  steals  gradually  away  have  a  peren 
nial  youth.  In  memory's  art  they  live 
in  perpetual  youth. 

She.  Yes,  and  in  perpetual  regret.  Can 
one  in  age  see  one's  portrait,  painted  in 
youth,  without  a  sigh  ?  This  was  what 
I  once  was,  and  now  !  Ah  me  ! 


142         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  That  is  the  thought  which  I  have 
endeavored  to  express  in  these  lines  :  — 

And  this  was  painted  from  her  face 

Some  hundred  years  ago, 
When  she  was  young,  glad,  full  of  grace, 

In  life's  first  bloom  and  glow. 
Here  June  and  joy  unfading  live, 

Here  youth  and  springtime  stay, 
While  she,  heart-weary,  worn  with  grief, 

Passed,  years  ago,  away  ; 

Passed  in  the  ripeness  of  her  years, 

When  she  was  sad,  gray,  old, 
Oppressed  with  cares,  depressed  by  fears, 

Life's  young  romance  all  told. 
But  here  no  tears  are  in  those  eyes, 

No  lines  are  on  this  brow, 
And  age,  death,  sadness  she  defies 

In  Art's  eternal  now. 

She.  We  must  all  come  to  it.  The 
thought  that  old  age  must  come  to  us, 
unless  death  interposes,  is  a  sad  one. 
But  there  is  no  help  for  it. 

He.  Suppose  things  had  been  arranged 
in  the  entirely  opposite  way,  —  that  it 
was  ordained  to  us  to  be  born  old,  and 


LATER  READINGS  143 

daily  and  yearly  to  grow  younger  and 
fresher  and  gladder,  and  that  time,  in 
stead  of  constantly  robbing  us  of  our 
youth,  should  as  constantly  carry  us  back 
to  it. 

She.  And  where  would  you  stop  ?  At 
the  prime  of  manhood  or  womanhood? 
Would  not  death  then  seem  more  cruel 
than  when  it  comes,  as  now,  after  the 
grasp  on  life  has  been  loosed  and  the 
glamour  of  youth  is  gone  ? 

He.  Perhaps  ;  but  suppose  it  went  on 
further  than  that,  to  the  child's  life,  and 
to  the  infant's  life,  and  then  to  die  in  the 
arms  of  our  mother,  knowing  and  fearing 
nothing  ? 

She.  There  would  not  then  be  any 
living  mother.  She  would  have  passed 
away  as  a  child  or  an  infant  herself. 

He.  That  is  a  difficulty,  and  perhaps, 
after  all,  it  is  better  as  it  is.  However,  I 
shall  have  to  think  out  this  scheme,  and 
see  what  arrangements  I  can  make  to 
obviate  this  difficulty,  and  then  I  will  let 
you  know. 

She.  Well ;  I  will  wait  in  patience  for 
the  solution.  But  now  let  us  go  on  to 
the  Ginn,  if  there  is  any  such  a  poem. 


144        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

The  Ginn  !  the  Ginn  !  I  say.  Let  me 
hear  what  the  Ginn  said. 

He.  No  ;  wait  a  moment.  First  I 
must  do  justice  to  Goethe,  and  correct 
the  impression  I  made  on  your  mind  yes 
terday.  You  may  remember  that  I 
quoted  two  lines  of  his  about  the  barking 
of  dogs.  I  could  only  quote  those  two 
lines,  for  I  had  quite  forgotten  all  the 
rest.  But  after  returning  home  I  looked 
up  the  passage.  It  occurs  in  what  he 
calls  an  Elegy,  and  I  think  it  but  fair  to 
him  to  say  that,  however  he  hates  the 
barking  of  dogs  in  general,  he  makes  a 
special  exception  in  favor  of  a  particu 
lar  dog.  His  Elegy  runs  thus.  Shall  I 
read  it  to  you  in  the  original  German, 
or  translate  it  ? 

She.  Oh,  translate  it,  by  all  means. 

He.  All  translations  are  poor.  Even 
the  best  are  like  the  reversed  side  of  the 
tapestry,  and  mine  is  not  the  best,  but 
they  give,  at  all  events,  the  sense  and  the 
rhythm  of  the  verses. 

Many  noises  are  hateful  to  me,  but,  far 

above  others, 
The   barking   of   dogs  I  hate  ;  yelping, 

they  tear  at  my  ears. 


LATER  READINGS  145 

One  dog  only  I  know  that  I  hear  very 

often  with  pleasure, 
Barking,  baying,  —  the  dog  that  to  my 

neighbor  belongs. 
For  once  at  my  maiden  he  barked  while 

she  was  quietly  sitting 
Here  at  my  side,  and  so  nearly  our  secret 

betrayed. 
Now  when  I  hear  him  bark,  I  think  she 

is  coming,  is  coming, 
Or  I  remember  the  time  when  she  was 

longed  for  —  and  came. 

She.  Well,  that  is  some  alleviation,  at 
least,  to  his  general  condemnation  of 
dogs,  and  I  take  back  my  reproval,  —  that 
is,  partially,  not  wholly.  He  could  not 
have  had  any  dog  of  his  own,  to  say 
what  he  did.  However,  a  little  is  better 
than  nothing,  and  we  lovers  of  dogs  must 
content  ourselves  with  the  crumbs  that 
are  thrown  to  us,  as  the  dogs  do. 

He.  No  ;  they  do  not  content  them 
selves.  They  will  not  let  us  alone.  They 
leap  up,  and  scratch  at  us,  and  sit  up  on 
their  hind  legs,  and  beg  and  pray  for 
more,  whatever  you  give  them. 

She.  Poor  little  things  ;  why  should  n't 
they? 


146        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  And  why  should  they?  I  like 
dogs  very  well  in  their  place.  But  that 
is  not  when  we  are  at  table,  and  eating. 

She.  And  what  is  their  place  ? 

He.  The  place  of  Fritz  is,  I  suppose,  in 
your  lap.  At  least,  he  seems  to  think  so, 
and  so  do  you,  if  I  may  judge  from  what 
I  see  ;  for  he  is  never  content  unless  he 
is  there. 

She.  Don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about 
dogs.  You  and  I  shall  never  agree  upon 
that  subject,  so  be  kind  enough  to  let  me 
hear  what  the  Giun  said  to  you. 

He.  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  read  it 
now. 

She.  Yes,  you  will. 

He.  So  be  it.     Here  it  is. 


A  GINN. 

With  a  prayer  to  the  Power  above  I  laid 

my  head  on  my  pillow, 
And  into  the  realms  of  silence, 
The  dim,  hushed  world  of  silence,  that  is 

far  beyond  even  dreaming, 
The   blank,    vague,    far-off    nowhere   of 

utter  unconsciousness, 
My  spirit  was  borne  away. 


LATER  READINGS  147 

And  there,  as  I  drifted,  I  know  not  how 

long,  knowing  nothing, 
Slowly  there  issued  to  me,  out  of  the 

silence  and  void, 
A    strange,    mysterious    voice,    and    a 

strange,  mysterious  shape, 
So  dim  it  was  scarcely  a  shape,  so  faint 

it  was  scarcely  a  voice, 
That  cried  to  me,  "  Listen  and  hear." 

At  these  words  in  my  sleep   I  started, 
then  back  again,  utterly  helpless, 

I  sank,  and  I  drifted  away  into  the  realm 
of  dreams. 

And  the  voice  cried,  "  Fear  not,  fear  not ; 
listen,  and  do  not  fear. 

I  am  banished  from  what,  in  your  fool 
ishness,  you  deem  heaven, 
But  me  no  power  can  destroy. 

There  cannot  be  good  without  evil, 

Or  what    men    in   their    blindness   call 
evil ; 

All  positives  negatives  need,  or  else  they 
could  not  exist, 

And  as  long  as  God's  positive  lives,  his 
negatives  also  will  live. 

This  is  one  half  of  creation  ;  the  other 

half  is  my  master's  ; 
Turn  to  me,  then,  and  hear. 


148         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

For  't  is  he  who  has  bid  me  to  come,  and 

whisper  to  you  a  message. 
Bend  to  me.     Thou  shalt  hear. 

"  I  have  stood  and  listened  behind  the 
dim,  drawn  curtain  of  death, 

And  heard  the   secret  words,    and   the 
things  that  are  to  be. 

Vainly  the  heavenly  guards  have  hurled 

at  me,  as  I  listened, 
Their  flashing  arrows  of  fire. 

With  the  lightning's  power  they  came, 

But  I  laughed  at  them  and  their  threat, 
For  my  master  protected  me. 

Listen  !  hark  !  I  will  whisper  those  hid 
den  secrets  to  thee, 
So  thou  mayst  know,  and  live,  — 

Know  the   things  that  are   coming,  the 
secrets  of  joy,  death,  life. 

"  Think  you  by  prayer  to   change  God's 

purposes,  foolish  mortal  ?  — 
Prayer,  and  the  intercession  of  what  you 

call  saints  and  angels  ? 
No  !  there  is  none  who  can  alter  or  sway 

his  slightest  intent. 

Has  He  listened  once  to  your  prayers  ? 
Has  He  answered  you  ever,  or  given  you 

aught  that  He  promised  ? 


LATER  READINGS  149 

Has  He  paid  you  with  joy  for  your  ser 
vice,  or  scourged  you  to  it  with 
thongs, 

Saying  that  pain  is  the  path  you  must 
travel  to  conie  to  Him  ? 

"  Which  is  the  God  you  worship  ?     Is  it 

Zeus,  Jehovah,  or  Baal, 
Isis,  Osiris,  Jupiter,  Christus,  or  whom  ? 
Whichever  it  be,  has  He  given  you  joy  in 

this  human  life, 
Or  only  promised  a  joy  when  this  life  on 

earth  shall  be  past  ?  — 
A  wretched    '  perhaps '   of    bliss   for   a 

present  of  toil,  grief,  pain  ! 
Turn,   then,  to  me  ;    all   the  joys  they 

promise  to  you  in  the  future 
My  master  will  give  to  you  here." 

And  he  bent  down  his  head,  and  whis 
pered, 

And  I  heard,  and  lost  all  my  senses, 
And  convulsions  and  mania  seized  me, 
And  I  struggled,  and  cried  out  wildly, 

As  if  a  demon  possessed  me. 
And  what  I  heard  I  can  tell  not, 

For  all  that  I  heard  seems  a  dream, 
That  hovers  about  in  my  brain,  and  is  all 
beyond  my  reach, 


150        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

And  I  cannot  utter  it. 
I  grasp  at  it  with  my  thoughts  afire,  out 
stretched  in  the  darkness, 
But  it  flies,  and  evades  my  touch.    Yet 

still  it  is  there  ! 
There,     whispering    dimly,     strangely  ; 

there,  hovering  out  of  sight  ; 
There,  tempting  with  promises  vague,  and 

wild,  mysterious  words, 
To  flee  with  it  far  away 
Into   boundless   regions   of  beauty,  and 

glory,  and  grace,  and  gladness, 
Beyond  all  sorrow  and  care, 
Where  knowledge  of  all  shall  be  given, 

And  the  secret  of  all  explained, 
Where  power  shall  be  granted  beyond  all 

human  seeing  and  knowing, 
Where  the  wildest  hope  of  the  spirit  shall 

blossom  in  perfect  flower. 
When  the  shadow  of  sleep  comes  on,  it 

whispers,  "  Come  to  me,  mortal, 
I  have  the  key  that  opens  the  gates  of  all 

earthly  delights. 
Linger  not  here,  but  come. 
I  am  he  who  whispered  in  time  long  ago 

to  Mohammed. 
Maraka,  the  aged  and  blind,  knew  me, 

and  heard  what  I  said, 


LATER  READINGS  151 

Crying  out,  *  Koddus,  Koddus.     Verily, 

this  is  the  Namus.' 
And  the  Korybantes  knew  me,  for  it  was 

I  that  possessed  them  ; 
And  the  Thyades,  and  the  Maenads,  and 

the  Lense,  and  Mirmillones, 
As   they   flung  their   arms    about,    and 

shouted,  and  clanged   their  cym 
bals  ;  — 
And   Pythia   heard   my  voice,   and   her 

oracles  were  my  whispers, 
And  all  the  Bacchantes  as  well,  and  the 

soothsayers  all,  and  diviners, 
And  the  prophets  throughout  all  time  in 

Babylon,  Judah,  and  Egypt,  — 
Zoroaster,   Maimonides,    Enoch,    Isaiah, 

Ezekiel,  and  all. 
To  the  Christ  I  whispered,  too,  and  't  was 

He  alone  that  repulsed  me. 
*  Tempter,  avaunt ! '  He  cried.     And  so 

He  died  on  the  cross. 

"Come   walk  in   the   garden  of  know 
ledge, 

In  the  garden  of  joy  and  of  knowledge, 
And  all  that  you  ask  shall  be  given, 

And  none   of  the   secrets   of  life   shall 
longer  be  hidden  from  you." 


152        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Starting  up  from  my  sleep  with  a  scream, 
I  cry, 

What  is  it  ?  Where  is  it  ?   Speak  !    An 
swer  ! 

And  nothing  is  there  but  a  dream, 
A  wild  and  horrible  dream. 

She.  That  is  a  wild  kind  of  thing,  and 
is  really  something  like  a  dream.  The 
only  difficulty  is  that  it  is  rather  too  con 
secutive.  In  our  dreams  all  things  seem 
to  have  a  natural  sequence,  though  they 
are,  in  fact,  utterly  dislocated,  and  so  look 
to  us  when  we  wake. 

He.  What  do  you  make  of  madness,  — 
which  seems  to  be  only  a  dream,  or  set 
of  dreams,  embodying  themselves  in  the 
facts  of  inner  and  outer  life,  from  which 
the  patient  cannot  free  himself,  and 
awake  ? 

She.  Yes  ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  draw 
the  exact  denning  line  between  madness 
and  sanity.  When  does  the  one  overstep 
the  line  into  the  other  ?  We  all  of  us, 
even  the  sanest,  have  some  hallucina 
tions,  called  sometimes  oddities.  We  all 
of  us  are  insane  in  our  dreams,  and  make 
excursions  into  the  insane  and  unreal 


LATER  READINGS  153 

world  of  fantasy.  A  touch  of  fever,  for 
instance,  and  the  patient  goes,  as  we  say, 
out  of  his  head.  But  what  is  his  head, 
and  where  does  he  go  ?  So  long  as  that 
fever  lasts  at  a  certain  grade,  what  he 
sees,  what  he  does,  is  to  him  as  real  as  it 
is  unreal  to  us.  I  remember  once  I  had 
a  violent  typhoid  fever,  and  for  some  ten 
days  was  quite  out  of  my  head.  All  the 
real  persons  around  me  were  phantoms  ; 
all  the  phantoms  of  my  brain  were,  on 
the  contrary,  real  and  substantial,  —  at 
least  to  me.  There  was,  for  instance, 
one  little  dwarf-like  figure  which  con 
stantly  attended  me,  and  my  mother, 
who  stood  at  my  bedside,  was  scarcely 
more  than  visionary,  while  this  little  fig 
ure  was  perfectly  distinct  and  real.  One 
day  he  perched  himself  upon  my  pillow 
at  the  right  side  of  my  head,  and,  after 
leaning  over,  and  looking  at  me,  and 
grotesquely  smiling,  he  drew  out  from 
under  his  arm  a  large  portfolio,  which 
he  spread  before  me,  and  slowly  turned 
over  its  pages  as  I  gazed  at  them.  What 
that  book  contained  of  wonderful  and 
beautiful,  ay,  and  of  natural  and  possible, 
as  well  as  of  strange  and  indescribable, 


154         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

it  is  impossible  for  me  to  tell.  But  at 
every  leaf  he  slowly  turned  there  ap 
peared  a  new  scene  ;  not  only  the  pic 
ture  of  a  scene,  but  a  real  scene.  One 
I  remember  in  particular  was  the  in 
terior  of  a  vast  cathedral,  magnificent 
with  columns,  and  frescoes,  and  altars, 
and  statues,  and  thronged  by  crowds  of 
worshipers,  among  whom  I  wandered; 
and  all  the  while  a  deep,  solemn  music 
was  going  on,  and  exquisite  voices  were 
sounding  in  grander  strains  than  ever 
Handel  or  Beethoven  composed.  And 
this  was  before  I  had  ever  been  in  a  great 
cathedral.  Pictures,  too,  at  that  time 
decorated  the  bare  walls  of  my  cham 
ber,  more  beautiful  in  tone  and  color 
than  ever  Leonardo,  or  Titian,  or  Raf- 
faelle  painted.  These  were  not  mere 
reminiscences  or  evocations  from  mem 
ory,  for  I  was  very  young  at  that  time, 
and  had  never  been  in  any  of  the  great 
churches,  and  cathedrals,  and  galleries. 
Afterwards,  when  years  had  passed  by, 
what  I  did  see  in  them  seemed  to  me  to 
recall  the  visions  that  in  that  fever  book 
before  me  rose  so  vividly.  How  will  you 
explain  this  ? 

f 


LATER  READINGS  155 

He.  Why  do  you  constantly  ask  me  to 
explain  what  is  entirely  inexplicable  to 
me,  to  you,  to  everybody  ?  I,  too,  have 
been  in  the  land  of  fever,  and  a  wonder 
ful  region  it  is,  beyond  experience,  and 
thronged  with  the  strangest  and  wildest 
creations  of  fancy,  —  hideous,  horrible, 
fearful,  beautiful.  Here  are  some  verses 
that  in  this  connection  may  interest  you. 
They  were  addressed  to  a  great  traveler, 
a  friend  of  mine,  and  in  a  morbid  fit  of 
jealousy  at  all  the  wonders  he  recounted 
and  described,  I  taunted  him  thus  :  — 

You  have  put  a  girdle  round  the  earth, 

You  have  traveled  far  and  wide, 
From  the  Orient,   where   our   morning 

rises, 

To  the  sunset's  western  side. 
You  have  trodden  the  wastes  of  the  Afri 

can  desert, 

And  basked  in  the  Tropic's  spice, 
And  climbed  the   peaks   of  the   Hima 

layas, 

And  been  locked  in  the  Arctic's  ice. 
And  I,  a  short  week  on  my  sick  couch 


Have  journeyed  farther  still, 


156         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

To  a  region  wild,  and  weird,  and  won 
drous, 

Where  phantoms  wander  at  will. 
It  was  but  a  moment's  sudden  parting  ; 

Fate  opened  the  door  to  me, 
And  this  world  vanished,  and  I  was  car 
ried 
To  regions  of  mystery  ; 

Out  of  the  real  world  about  me 

Into  a  world  of  dream, 
Into  the  strange  world  of  delirium, 

Where  horrors  and  splendors  teem  ; 
Where    Afrites,  and  Ginns,  and  Spirits 
wander, 

And  wishes  and  hopes  have  wings, 
And  dizzy  imagination  riots 

And  plays  with  the  shapes  of  things  ; 

A   wonderful    world,  —  ah  !    far    more 

wondrous 

Than  any  that  here  we  see, 
Where     the     brain     works     out     wild, 

strange  creations 
And  creatures  of  fantasy  ; 
Where  everything  shifts,  and  moves,  and 

changes, 
Respondent  to  thought  and  whim  ; 


LATER  READINGS  157 

Where  the  body  is  left  behind,  and  the 

spirit 
Whirls  through  a  realm  of  dream; 

A  realm  that  lies  on  the  verge  of  mad 
ness, 

Where  the  mind  no  helm  obeys, 
But  helpless,  beyond  the  reach  of  reason, 

Is  swept  through  delirium's  maze  ; 
Where  all  that  is  glorious  and  ideal, 

And  all  that  is  fearful  and  wild, 
Throng    gathering    round    us,    to   jeer, 
shriek,  jabber, 

Or  whisper  in  voices  mild. 

Abysms  of  horror  there  gape  before  us, 

Impossible  monsters  arise, 
And  forms  angelic,  and  struggling  crea 
tures 

With  glaring  and  spectral  eyes. 
Oh,  you  who  for  years  and  years  have 

journeyed 

To  the  ends^of  this  fair  earth,  say, 
Have  you  seen  this  world  that  I  traveled 

over 
While  here  on  my  bed  I  lay  ? 

She.  Well !  had  he  ? 


158        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

He.  No,  he  had  not ;  and  I  towered 
over  him  exultant,  and  waved  my  sword 
for  victory,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
stopped  him  short  in  one  of  his  best 
stories.  Whether  it  was  founded  on  fact 
or  not  is  a  question.  Travelers'  stories 
are  notorious.  A  man  that  cannot  shoot 
a  pea-gun  at  a  fly  at  home  does  such  ter 
rible  ravages  among  tigers  and  elephants 
in  the  east,  and  south,  and  the  wilds  of 
Africa.  "There  I  was,  all  alone,  and 
five  hundred  tigers  came  down  upon  me, 
roaring  for  food.  Fortunately,  I  had 
with  me  my  patent  five-barreled,  self- 
loading  and  priming  gun.  You  should 
see  that  gun,  my  boy  !  I  believe  there  is 
not  such  another  in  the  world.  As  this 
wild  band  of  tigers  rushed  at  me,  I  stood 
firm  as  a  rock,  and  took  deliberate  aim  at 
the  foremost  group,  and  in  less  than  a 
moment  one  hundred  of  them  groveled 
on  the  sand  in  their  death  struggles,"  et 
cetera,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  There  is  no 
computing  how  many  lions  and  tigers  one 
tremendous  traveler  will  dispose  of  in  a 
minute  ;  nor  how  many  thousand  dancing- 
girls,  with  cymbals  and  tambourines, 
waving  their  twinkling  arms  covered  with 


LATER  READINGS 

bracelets,  —  creatures  beautiful  as  Houris, 
—  will  suddenly  appear,  when,  idly  repos 
ing  in  his  Oriental  tent  in  the  deserts  of 
Weiss-nicht-wo,  he  claps  his  hands  lazily; 
nor  how  many  sherbets  he  can  drink  ; 
nor  how  many  camelopards  he  can  ride. 

She.  And  was  your  friend  one  of  those 
long-tailed  Bashaws  ? 

He.  No  ;  he  was  not.  He  was  as  brave, 
good,  modest  fellow  as  ever  trod  on 
earth.  All  that  stuff  I  have  been  talk 
ing  is  mere  rodomontade  and  nonsense. 
There  was  no  exaggeration  about  him, 
and  no  pretense.  He  was  an  English 
officer,  who  spent  several  years  in  India, 
whose  word  was  as  good  as  an  oath,  — 
better,  too,  than  most  oaths.  He  told 
me  he  made  the  acquaintance  there  of  a 
young  fellow,  —  he  did  not  tell  me  his 
name  ;  in  fact,  he  thought  he  went  under 
a  name  that  was  not  his  own.  Something 
had  happened  to  him  ;  my  friend  never 
knew  what,  but  he  always  suspected  that 
he  had  had  an  unfortunate  love  affair.  At 
least,  he  gathered  it  was  so  from  words 
that  the  young  fellow  occasionally  let  fall. 
He  never  said  anything  about  his  family. 
In  fact,  who  he  was  and  where  he  came 


160        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

from  was  enveloped  in  a  haze  that  my 
friend  never  penetrated.  One  night  he 
was  summoned  by  an  orderly  (I  think 
that's  what  he  called  the  man)  to  the 
young  man's  tent,  and  he  found  him 
alone  and  dying.  Of  course  my  friend 
at  once  said  he  must  call  the  surgeon  or 
physician.  But  the  young  man  absolutely 
refused  to  allow  him  to  do  this,  saying 
that  nothing  could  be  done  for  him,  and 
he  wished  nothing  to  be  done  for  him, 
and  only  prayed  him  to  stay  with  him 
and  listen  to  him.  And  what  he  said  I 
have  put  into  verse,  as  well  as  I  could. 
It  was  this  :  — 

Bend  down  your  head  to  me, 

My  voice  is  almost  gone. 

Say  !  are  we  quite  alone  ? 

Yes  ?     Quite  ?     Prop  up  my  pillow,  — 

wipe  my  brow  ! 
Ah  !  I  am  easier  now. 
Thanks  ;  I  am  dying,  as  you  see,  — 
Dying  afar  from  all  whom  once  I  knew 
And  once  I  loved  —  save  you. 

No  !  no  !  't  is  useless  —  all  you  say,  dear 

friend. 
This  is,  thank  God,  the  end. 


LATER  READINGS  161 

They  are  all  happy  there. 

Who,  in  their  hearts,  could  really  care 
Whether  I  live  or  die. 

Years  have  gone  by 

Since  they  have  seen   me  —  thought   of 
me,  perhaps  ; 

And  after  this  long  lapse, 

Even  if  perchance  they  still 

May  think  at  times,  Is  he  now  well  —  or 
ill? 

'T  is  but  a  passing  thought  that  flies 

Like  to  a  bird  that  flits  across  the  skies, 

And  vanishes,  and  leaves  no   trace   be 
hind  ; 

'T  is  but  a  rustle  of  the  wandering  wind 

That  shakes  the  leaves  a  moment,  and 
then  dies. 

Let  no  one  of  them  know 
That  I  am  dead.     'T  is  better  so  ! 
Far  better.     If  they  ask  about  me,  say 
You  met  me  here,  and  I  was  on  my  way 
To  a  long  journey  ;    that   I   could  not 

write  ; 

That  it  was  late  at  night, 
And  before  morning  I  was  forced  to  go  ; 

It  will  be  surely  so. 
Give  them  my  love  and  greetings  ;  say, 

as  well, 


162        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

That  whether,  where   I  go,   the  means 

there  be 

To  send  them  news  of  me 
I  cannot  tell. 

The  country  is  so  far  and  strange,  I  fear 
There  are  no  means  to  send  to  them  from 

there 
Tidings  of  where  I  am ;  and  tell  them, 

too, 

I  'm  ill  at  writing,  even  at  the  best, 
And  if  they  hear  not  from  me,  they  must 

rest 

Secure,  at  least,  that  I  am  well  to  do,  — 
Pray  God  that  this  be  true  ! 

Thus  much  to  all  my  real  friends  ;  for 

why 
Obscure  their  happiness,  or  make  them 

sigh, 
Who  hold  me  still  dear  in  their  memory, 

If  any  such  there  be  ? 
Let  them  go  on  and  think  of  me  as  one 
Who  still  is  wandering  far  away,  alone, 
But  who,  some  day,  again  may  come 

Back  to  his  friends  and  home. 

But  to  one  only  tell  the  truth,  for  she 
Has  been  the  cause  of  all  the  misery 


LATER  READINGS  163 

That  now  for  dreary  years  has  haunted 

me. 
There  is  my  real  name  —  there  in  that 

book  ; 
And  there  is  hers  as  well,  beneath  it  — 

look  ! 
And  there 's  her  face,  so  cruel,  cold,  and 

fair. 
If  you  should  chance   to  meet  her,  say 

to  her 
You  saw  me  die,  death-stricken  by  the 

dart 

That  she  thrust  cruelly  into  my  heart, 
Whose  poisonous  barbs  have  ever  rankled 

there, 
And  driven  me  from  the  world  in  my 

flespair, 
And  cursed  my  life  ;  that  I  have  sought 

for  Death  — 
Wooed  him   in  battle,  in  the  cannon's 

breath, 
By  sea,  by  land  —  ay,  wooed  him  like  a 

bride, 
And  Death,  like  her,  has  always  turned 

aside, 
And  laughed  at  me,  as  she  did  ;  but  at 

last 
He  comes  to  free  me  from  the  torturing 


164        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

I  would  forgive  her  if  I  could.     I  pray 
I  may  forgive  her  ere  I  pass  away. 

Tell  her  all  this.     Oh,  do  not  fear  ! 
She  will  receive  it  calmly,  with  a  smile 
Cold  as  a  gleam  upon  an  iceberg,  while 
You  faltering  utter   it.      But  make  her 

swear, 
Ere  these  last  words  of  mine  to  her  you 

bear, 

To  keep  the  secret  hidden  in  her  breast. 
Be  sure  it  never  will  disturb  her  rest, 
'T  is  but  another  scalp  for  her  to  wear, 
Another  bird,  another  butterfly, 
That  for   her  pleasure  writhing  had  to 

die, 

That  she  might  grace  with   it  h*er  lus 
trous  hair. 

No,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  not  cruel.     No, 
Far  from  it !     Do  you  think  that  she  will 

grieve 
One  moment,  have    one  pang,  one  tear 

will  shed  ? 

Never  !    You  '11  see.     She  will  receive 
With  joy  the  happy  news  that  I  am  dead, 
And  dance  the  next  dance  with  a  lighter 

tread,  — 


LATER  READINGS  165 

If  anything  upon  her  heart  could  weigh, 

Perhaps  the  thought  of  me, 

Living,  might   trouble  her.     Perhaps,  I 

say, 

I  know  not,  —  and  if  so  it  be, 
My  death,  the  assurance  I  have  passed 

away 

Beyond  all  reach,  all  possibility 
Of  speech  or  of  return,  might  lift  from 

her 
The  faintest  breath  of  trouble,  that  might 

stir, 

Perchance  —  who  knows  ?  —  some  sleep 
ing  memory 
Far  down  within   the  heart,  —  if  heart 

there  be 
In  that   cold   nature  —  cruel,  cold,  and 

hard, 
That    all    my     life     so     fatally     hath 

marred,  — 
And  from  the  dead  past  set  her  wholly 

free. 

She.  That  is  a  sad  enough  story.  Did 
he  ever  deliver  that  message  ?  And  how 
did  she  really  take  it,  if  he  did  ?  Did  he 
ever  tell  you  what  her  name  was  ?  Did 
you  ever  see  her  ?  What  was  her  name  ? 


166        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  Ah,  that  I  promised  not  to  tell, 
and  a  promise  is  a  promise,  and  particu 
larly  a  promise  to  a  dying  man,  you  know. 

She.  But  you  did  n't  make  any  such 
promise  ;  at  least,  you  did  not  say  so. 

He.  No,  I  did  not  say  so  ;  I  only  told 
you  what  he  said,  not  what  she  said. 

She.  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  the 
story  from  beginning  to  end.  You  in 
vented  it  all  to  account  for  your  poem. 

He.  I  am  sorry  you  have  so  little  trust 
in  me.  And  why,  may  I  ask,  don't  you 
believe  it  to  be  founded  on  fact  ? 

She.  Because,  in  the  first  place,  you 
never  can  trust  to  what  poets  say,  as  a 
general  rule  ;  and  in  the  next  place,  be 
cause  I  don't  believe  any  man  ever  died 
of  love,  except,  of  course,  in  poems  and 
romances.  It  takes  a  good  deal  to  kill  a 
man.  I  dare  say  your  poor  fellow,  if  he 
ever  existed,  may  have  been  disappointed 
in  his  love  affair  —  if  he  ever  had  one  — 
and  did  not  like  being  thrown  over,  and 
went  about  mooning  and  moaning  a  lit 
tle  while  ;  but  as  for  dying  of  love,  no  ! 
Sir  Poet,  no  man  ever  did.  I  dare  say 
he  wore  his  collar  down,  and  sulked,  and 
posed  for  a  time,  and  read  Byron's 


LATER  READINGS  167 

poems  and  all  that,  and  wandered  out 
into  the  woods  alone,  and  made  bad 
verses,  and  sighed,  and  drank  too  much 
wine,  but  there  it  ended. 

He.  This  is  painful  for  a  poet  to  hear, 
—  very  painful.  It  saps  one's  trust  in 
humanity. 

She.  No  ;  but  you  know  that  you  did 
really  delude  me  at  first  about  your 
young  man,  you  told  his  story  so  seri 
ously.  However,  we  have  had  enough  of 
him,  and  now  you  must  read  me  some 
thing  more  lively,  more  sentimental,  to 
take  the  taste  out  of  my  mouth,  as  it 
were. 

He.  One  moment  ;  I  found  in  my 
friend's  pocketbook  a  few  verses,  which, 
I  suppose,  were  addressed  to  that  young 
woman,  and  I  must  read  them  to  you. 
Really,  you  know,  they  were  rather  like 
her. 

She.  Like  what  you  fancied  she  was, 
you  mean. 

He.  No  ;  like  her,  as  I  knew  her. 

She.  Well,  let  me  hear  them. 

He. 

You  spoil  my  life,  you  break  my  heart ; 

but  then, 
What  matters  that  to  you  ? 


168        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

You  've  done  the  same  to  twenty  other 

men, 
It  is  not  even  new  ! 

To  you  't  is  only  what  is  new  that  moves 

A  moment's  interest  ; 
All  that  is  old  —  old  joys,  old  pains,  old 
loves  — 

Are  birds  of  last  year's  nest. 

So,  with  a  heartless  smile  you  turn  away 
From  my  impassioned  words, 

And  't  is  as  if  a  hand  should  strive  to 

play 
A  harp  that  has  no  chords. 

She.  I  've  no  doubt  he  bored  her  to 
death  with  his  impassioned  words. 

He.  No  ;  I  knew  her  well.  She  was  a 
born  flirt. 

She.  You  knew  her  ?  You  just  said 
these  lines  you  found  in  your  imaginary 
friend's  portfolio.  Do  be  careful. 

He.  I  mean,  of  course,  that  he  found 
these  verses,  not  I,  in  his  friend's  port 
folio. 

She.  And  how  did  you  come  to  know 
her,  pray  ? 


LATER  READINGS  169 

He.  Ob,  I  won't  be  examined  and  cate 
chised.  Are  you  jealous  of  her  ? 

She.  Yes,  I  am.  I  am  nothing,  if  not 
frank. 

He.  But  you  know  a  hundred  such 
women,  without  particularizing  one. 

She.  No  ;  only  men  know  such  women. 
But  read  me  something  pleasanter, — 
about  some  nice  person. 

He.  Wait  a  moment.  I  want  to  read 
you  first  a  little  poem  about  one  of  these 
women,  as  you  call  them,  no  better  in 
heart,  or  feeling,  or  even  morals,  than 
they  should  be.  They  are  verses  from 
the  book  of  a  young  man  whom  one  of 
them  had  bound  and  carried  at  her  char 
iot  wheels  for  years  ;  who  had  become  at 
last  thoroughly  disgusted  with  her,  and 
yet  who  was  still  her  slave,  and  wanted 
strength  of  will  to  break  away,  so  fet 
tered  was  he  by  old  habits  and  old  prom 
ises  from  which  he  was  utterly  unable  to 
free  himself. 

She.  A  nice  young  man,  truly. 

He.  Ah,  the  difficulty  was  that  he  was 
not  nice,  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word,  — 
which  we  have  now  lost  ;  and  more,  he 
was  utterly  weak  of  purpose,  and,  though 


170        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

he  knew  the  way,  he  could  not  take  it. 
But  you  will  see,  perhaps,  what  he  was 
in  these  verses  :  — 

She  has  ruined  my  life,  —  that  is  all, 

And  almost  I  hate  her,  but  still 
The  old  spell  remains  to  enthrall 

My  spirit  and  weaken  my  will. 
The  grace  and  the  charm  of  the  past 

Have  vanished,  —  that  lured  me  like 

fate,  — 
But  a  net  o'er  my  life  she  has  cast 

That  is  woven  of  love  and  of  hate. 

The  old  habit,  alas  !  is  a  chain 

Whose  links  I  can  never  undo, 
And  to  break  them  I  struggle  in  vain,  — 

I  am  weak,  all  so  weak,  through  and 

through. 
I  would  leave  her,  and  flee,  if  I  could,  — 

Life  and  duty  call  on  me  to  go, 
But  I  cannot  ;  I  know  that  I  should, 

But  I  cannot  ;  I  'm  chained  to  her  so. 

Ah,  well !     'T  is  my  fate,  I  suppose, 
And  't  is  useless  to  strive  and  rebel, 

Though  this  life  now,  that  once  was  all 

rose, 
And  half  heaven,  is  simply  half  hell. 


LATER  READINGS  171 

Oh  !  a  curse  on  the  day  we  first  met, 
Though  our  love  was  like  heaven  at 

first, 
And  its  sweetness  I  cannot  forget 

Even    now,    though    my    life   it   has 
cursed. 

I  'm  a  coward ;  I  dare  not  to  say 

Farewell  !     Here  's  the  end  !     Let  us 

part ! 
She  would  storm  at  me,  weep,  rave,  and 

pray, 

And  cry  I  was  breaking  her  heart. 
O  God,  how  the  glory  and  grace, 

How  the  joy  and  the  fragrance  have 

gone  ! 

All  the  light  gone  that  once  lit  that  face, 
Blown  out  as  a  candle  is  blown. 

Nothing    left   but   the   smoke    and   the 
smell 

Of  the    wick,   while    in    darkness    I 

grope 
Some  outlet  to  find  from  this  well 

Where  I  see  not  one  gleam  of  a  hope. 
Though  myself  I  revile,  and  revile* 

Her  also,  and  cry  like  a  fool, 
Making  bold  resolutions  the  while, 

And  striving  my  weakness  to  rule. 


172        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Well,  well  !  there  's  one  outlet  alway, 

One  remedy —  death  —  if  no  more. 
Here  it  is.    Courage  !    What  will  she  say 

When  she  finds  me  stretched  dead  on 

the  floor  ? 
'T  is  a  coward's  resource,  well  I  know, 

But  I  'm  weary,  so  weary  of  life, 
And  perhaps  it  is  best  I  should  go, 

And  end  all  its  struggles  and  strife. 

But  I  dare  not.     I  know  if  I  stay 

These  chains  I  shall  nevermore  break. 
Life 's  a  torture,  but   death  —  ah  !   that 

way 

Is  too  fearful  —  too  fearful  to  take. 
And  what  would  she  care  if  I  did  ? 
Would  she  weep  or  lament  ?     Would 

she  shed 
One  tear  on  my  cold  coffin  lid  ? 

Would   she    feel   one    regret   for   the 
dead? 

Perhaps  ;  but  what  matters  it  all 

If  she  does  or  does   not?     Some   re 
morse 

She  may  feel,  and  perhaps  may  recall 
The   old   days   as   she  stands  by  my 
corse. 


LATER  READINGS  173 

But  I  shall  not  hear  her,  thank  God  ; 
I,  at  least,  shall  be  free  and  at  rest. 
And   she  '11   find,  when   I  'm   under  the 

sod, 

Some    new   bauble    to   hang   on    her 
breast. 

She.  Well,  a  poorer  kind  of  weak 
creature  than  that  I  never  knew.  He 
could  not  even  make  up  his  own  mind 
what  to  do,  and  he  did  n't  know  even 
what  he  wanted. 

He.  I  don't  recommend  him  to  you  as 
so  noble  and  high-minded  a  being  as  the 
rest  of  us  are.  But  you  see  that  is  the 
wretched  condition  to  which  some  of  your 
sex  reduce  some  of  ours  ;  for,  unwill 
ingly,  I  am  forced  to  admit  that  there  are 
some  of  our  sex  who  are  weak  and  poor 
things,  and  some  of  yours  who  do  not 
come  entirely  up  to  the  grand  and  pure 
ideals  of  life  that  we  sometimes  form  of 
them. 

She.  But,  after  all,  these  despairing 
and  blighted  beings  of  whom  you  have 
given  me  specimens  are  only  rare  excep 
tions  in  life,  if  they  ever  exist.  Now, 
please  let  me  hear  something  of  a  more 


174         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

genial  turn  of  thought  and  feeling.  I 
don't  at  all  believe  in  these  misanthropes 
of  yours.  But  whether  they  exist  or  not, 
I  should  like  to  leave  them  for  a  pleas- 
anter  company.  Have  n't  you  a  poem  of 
a  kindlier  character  to  read  me  ? 

He.  Yes  ;  I  confess  that  I  agree  with 
you.  We  have  had  enough,  and  more 
than  enough,  of  these  fellows,  and  to 
shift  the  scene,  let  me  read  you  some 
lines  that  Charley  wrote  to  Annie  on  his 
return  from  the  Indies.  He  was  a  young 
fellow  full  of  life  and  hope  when  he  went 
away.  But  when  he  returned,  after 
many  years'  absence,  he  had  grown  to  be 
an  old  fellow,  with  white  beard  and  hair, 
and  pleasant  ways,  and  a  large  fortune. 
His  cares  and  struggles  were  over,  and  he 
had  come  home  to  the  old  places  and  the 
old  friends  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his 
life.  One  of  his  first  visits  was  to  Annie, 
with  whom  he  had  flirted  in  his  youth, 
and  of  whom  he  had  preserved  in  his 
heart,  like  rose-leaves  in  a  book,  many  a 
half-tender  memory.  And  this  is  what 
he  said  to  her  at  their  first  meeting  after 
his  return  :  — 


LATER  READINGS  175 

Since  last  we  met  how  many  a  long,  long 

year 
Hath  flown  away,  with  ne'er  returning 

flight  ! 
And  now  your  face  brings  back  those  days 

so  dear, 
That  glow  in  memory  with    unfading 

light. 
We   both   are  changed  !     Still,  on  your 

face  I  see 
The  same  sweet  smile;  the  same  sweet 

tones  I  hear  ; 

The  same  sweet  ways  that  so  enchanted  me 
When  we  were  young  and  glad,  without 
a  fear. 

Ah,  me  !  you    say.     Changed,  changed, 

indeed,  old  friend  ! 
Nothing  is  now  as  once  it  used  to  be. 
No  !    Time  to  you  hath  had  the  power  to 

lend 

An  added  grace  to  that  of  memory  ; 
A  grace  that  only  time  and  age  can  bring, 
A  twilight  grace  that  noon  nor  morning 

knows,  — 

A  tenderer  charm,  that  comes  when  even 
ing's  wing 

Its    softening    veil    across    all    nature 
throws. 


176         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

With  laughter   once   we   greeted   every 

day, 
And   now   we   greet   it  with   a  silent 

sigh  ! 
Yes,  we  were  once  more  glad  and  freely 

gay, 

But  were    we   happier   in  those   days 

gone  by  ? 
Through  memory's  mists  —  half  real  and 

half  dream  — 
Seem  they  not  sweeter  than  in  fact  they 

were  ? 
As  the  steep  cliffs  of  distant  mountains 

seem, 

Their  rude  facts  veiled  in  mysteries  of 
air. 

Our   hopes   are    fewer,  but   are   calmer 

far  ; 
We  ask  for  less,  and  we  have  gained 

content. 
No    wild    desires    our   peaceful    visions 

mar  ; 

Life  is  a  simpler  plain,  of  less  extent ; 
We  know  at  last  that  youth's  wild  dreams 

were  vain, 

And  o'er  life's  lesser  round  we  peace 
ful  go, 


LATER  READINGS  177 

Taking  what  comes,  and  not  with  eager 

strain 

Striving  for  what  life  cannot  give  be 
low. 

What  though  your  hair  is  white,  —  I  like 

it  so  ; 
Softer  it  seems  —  more  delicate  —  and 

rhymes 

More  truly  to  the  tender  soul  I  know 
Than   those  dark   curls  you   wore   in 

olden  times. 
Nay  !  do  not  smile  and  shake  your  head, 

my  friend, 
'T  is  really  so,  —  I  simply  speak  the 

truth. 

Too  old  for  flattery  ?      Ah,  but  I  pre 
tend 

Old   age   can   be   even    lovelier   than 
youth. 

You  are  bound  up  with  all  those  olden 

days, 
Their  joys  and  pains,   their   sorrows, 

cares,  and  dreams  ; 
And  o'er  your   head  an   aureole   softly 

plays, 
Lit  by  the  light  of  far  memorial  gleams. 


178         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

We  have  grown  old  together  ;  we  can 

hear 
From  far-off  time  the  bells  of  memory 

ring  — 
Some  sadly  faint,  some  joyous,  loud,  and 

clear  — 

That  of  the  past  in  sweet  accordance 
sing. 

She.  I  must  confess  these  reminiscences 
make  me  sad.  Pray  read  me  something 
of  a  different  character  at  once. 

He.  Well,  then,  absolutely  to  change 
the  whole  course  of  thought,  I  will  read 
you  what  I  call  my  battle  hymn. 

She.  That  will  be  a  change,  for  there 
was  little  that  was  stirring  in  the 
characters  you  have  just  drawn,  —  was 
there  ? 

He.  Now  you  will  expect  trumpets  and 
drums,  1  suppose,  and  triumph  and  shouts 
and  roar  of  cannon. 

She.  Of  course  I  shall,  as  you  call  it  a 
battle  piece. 

He.  And  perhaps  you  will  be  disap 
pointed.  However,  such  as  it  is,  here 
it  is  :  — 


LATER  READINGS  179 


BATTLE  HYMN. 

Grant  us,  O  God,  to  crush  our  enemies 
That  serried  round  us  in  battalions  rise 

On  every  side  ; 
That  we  may  trample  them  beneath  our 

feet 

Despite  their  strength  and  pride. 
Grant  us  the  victory,  —  victory  is  sweet, 

Sweet  at  whatever  cost. 
Though  we  be  wounded,  stricken  even  to 

death, 
Still  we  will  praise  Thee  with  our  dying 

breath  ; 

So  that  the  cause  we  fight  for  is  not 
lost. 

Anything  give  us  but  defeat, 
Anything  urge  us  to  but  base  retreat. 
We  seek  not  ease  or  peace  or  truce  with 
these, 

Our  mortal  enemies, 

But  only  triumph,  —  victory  at  the  last, 
When  the  dread  conflict  shall  be  past. 
Oh,  in  this  battle  be  our  great  ally  ; 
Command  us,  and  we  will   not  fear  to 
die. 


180         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

And  where  and  who  are  these 
Against  whose  hosts  Thy  mighty  aid  we 

ask  ; 

Who  are  our  bitter  enemies, 
Whom  to  subdue  is  man's  severest  task  ? 
Behold  they  all  around  us  stand, 
Within,  without,  on  every  hand, 
Marshaled  by   one  great  leader,  —  Thy 

fierce  foe, 

Who  fain  the  hosts  of  heaven  would  over 
throw, 
And  all  the  angelic  band. 

Self-love  his  armies  are,  and  low  desires, 
And  evil  thoughts  lit  by  unholy  fires  ; 
Greed,  envy,  passions  violent  and  strong; 
Revenge,  wild  impulses  to  wrong, 
Hatred,  and  cruelty,  and  sullen  will 
That  longs  to  wound,  —  even  though  it 

dare  not  kill  ; 

Mean  jealousy  that  all  but  self  derides, 
And  pallid   cowardice   that   skulks  and 

hides, 

And  heeds  not  duty's  call  ; 
Black  falsehood  tempting  with  insidious 

wiles, 

And  masked  hypocrisy  that  ever  smiles 
Falsely  on  one  and  all. 


LATER  READINGS  181 

This  is  the  mighty  band 
That  leaguered  round  us  stand, 
Against   whose   fierce   attacks   and  am 
bushed  snares 
We    call   upon   Thee   with   our   earnest 

prayers 
To  lend  Thy  helping  hand. 

Nor    these    alone.      Against    the    siren 

power 
Of  sweet,  seductive  passions  make  us 

strong  ; 
For  as  we  toil  with  weary  oar 

The  sea  of  life  along, 
They  ever  sing  from  off  a  dreamy  shore 

Their  sweet,  alluring  song. 
Come  !   come  !  they  cry  to  us,  and  toil  no 

more. 
Here  are  sweet  winds,  and  happy  bowers 

of  rest  ; 
Here  is   dear  leisure  for   the   heart  op- 

prest, 
And   flower-enameled    meadows,   all    in 

bloom, 

That  fill  the  ambient  air  with  faint  per 
fume. 

Give  o'er,  give  o'er 
This  endless  strife  of  ever  laboring  life, 


182        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

And  dwell  in  peace  with  us,  —  oh,  this  is 
best. 

Here  love  lies  sleeping  ;  here  are  bliss 
ful  dreams, 

Lulled  by  the  lapse  of  ever  murmuring 

streams. 
No  strife,  no  toil  is  here  to  spoil 

The  languid  luxury  of  peace  and  love 

In  the  green   earth  below,  or  the  blue 
heavens  above. 

Oh,  bind  us  to  the  mast,  and  seal  our 

ears, 
For  sweet,  too  sweet,  are  these  alluring 

strains. 
Let  Duty's  trumpet  sound,  for  in  our 

veins 
The  blood  flows  stagnant,  courage  ebbs 

away 
While  thus  we  listen.     We  are  filled  with 

fears, 
And  ah  !  we  fain  would  stay. 

But    we   for    other    lands    beyond    are 

bound  ; 

Here  we  must  not  delay. 
The  battle  must  be  fought,  and  not   a 

day 


LATER  READINGS  183 

Must  here  be  lost.     So  let  the  trumpet 

sound, 
That    all    these    siren    voices    may    be 

drowned  ; 

Let  us  away. 
Courage,  no  shrinking,   each   to   do   his 

part; 
Steady,   and    forward   with    an   earnest 

heart, 
And  victory,  O  God,  to  ours,  we  pray  ! 

She.  Well,  I  confess  this  is  not  what  I 
expected  from  a  battle  hymn. 

He.  But  is  it  not  one  ?  What  battles 
are  severer  than  those  which  we  have 
with  the  enemy  within  ? 

She.  I  admit  the  battle  is  stern,  the 
victory  difficult  and  doubtful. 

He.  I  have  got  somewhere  here,  if 
I  remember  rightly,  not  a  battle  hymn, 
but  a  battle  speech,  which,  if  you  are 
disappointed  hi  this,  may  interest  you. 
It  is  a  little  speech  by  Captain  X.  on 
board  the  Victory,  let  us  call  her,  before 
the  battle  with  the  Spanish  Armada. 

She.  Oh,  yes  ;  let  me  hear  that. 

He.  It  is  on  rather  different  lines 
from  the  other,  but  you  know  it  is, — 


184         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

as  far  as  I  can  remember  it  —  what  he 
really  said  ;  and,  by  the  way,  that  re 
minds  me  of  a  curious  fact  in  regard  to 
the  famous  signal  of  Nelson,  "England 
expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty/'  that 
I  believe  is  little  known. 

She.  But  which,  I  suppose,  you  have 
invented. 

He.  No  ;  this  is  a  real  fact,  —  it  is, 
indeed. 

She.  Well,  what  is  it  ? 

He.  Nelson's  original  order  was  to  sig 
nal  these  words  :  "  Nelson  expects  every 
man  to  do  his  duty  ; "  but  in  the  hurry 
and  confusion  the  signal  for  "  Nelson  " 
could  not  be  found,  and  that  for  "  Eng 
land  "  was  substituted. 

She.  No  !  is  that  really  a  fact  ? 

He.  I  was  not  present,  but  so  it  is 
affirmed  by  those  who  were.  But  to  go 
back  to  Drake's  fleet.  This  is  about 
what  the  brave  Captain  X.  said  to  his 
crew  :  — 

Ah,  there  they  are  at  last  ! 

Give  a  cheer  ; 

Nail  your  flag  against  the  mast,  — 
Nail  it  firm,  and  nail  it  fast  ; 

Never  fear  ! 


LATER  READINGS  185 

We  will  give  them  all  they  want, 

And  more,  too, 
For  all  their  brag  and  vaunt. 
Let  no  doubts  your  spirits  daunt, 
There  is  no  such  word  as  "  can't " 
For  the  brave  and  for  the  true. 
We  are  here  to-day  to  do,  — 
Not  to  talk,  but  to  do  ! 
But  that  is  nothing  new 
For  a  brave  good  English  crew 
Such  as  you,  boys,  —  such  as  you  ! 

We  are  here  to-day  to  fight 
With  all  our  English  might 
For  God  and  for  the  right,  — 

And  we  mean  to  do  it,  too,  — 
And  for  good  old  England's  cause, 

And  its  liberty  and  laws,  — 
Hearts  of  oak,  boys,  hearts  of  oak,  boys, 

Through  and  through  ! 

Are  there  any  wish  for  flight  ? 

Let  them  go  ! 
Now 's  the  moment  ;  let  them  speak  ! 

Ah,  I  thought  so  ;  none  so  weak 
As  would  wish  from  odds  to  fly 
When  we  see  our  enemy. 

It  is  so,  boys,  is  it  not  ?     It  is  so. 


186         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Ay,  that  's  the  cheer  I  like. 
We  are  ready  now  to  strike, 

Not  our  flag,  though,  —  not  our  flag  ; 

ah,  no  !  no  ! 

But  to  strike  with  hands  and  heart, 
And  to  play  our  English  part, 
And  to  teach  these  Spanish  Dons, 
By  the  talking  of  our  guns, 

A  lesson  that  as  yet  they  do  not  know. 

But  be  steady,  heart  and  brain  ! 

Fire  low,  and  sweep  their  decks 
With  a  storm  of  iron  rain  ; 
Keep  cool,  —  no  hurry,  —  if  again 
They  wish  to  see  old  Spain, 

We  will  send  them  back  to  see  it  — 
from  their  wrecks  ! 

Ah,  my  gallant  Spanish  ones, 

Who  have  come  with  brag  and  boast, 
With  your  galleons,  and  your  host, 
To  threaten  England's  coast, 

Our  answer  shall  be  only  with  our  guns. 

We  will  teach  you  in  the  end 
That  we  are  not  wholly  daft, 
And  to  all  your  priestly  craft 

The  hearts  of  English  faith  will  not  bend. 
Come  what  will,  and  come  what  may 


LATER  READINGS  187 

We  mean  to  have  our  say, 
And  to  cry  it  out  from  shore  unto  shore, 

Not  with  voices  sweet  and  low, 
But  with  cannon  voice  and  roar, 
And   a   message   from    old  England  as 

they  go. 

No  more  bragging.     England  wants 
No  idle  taunts  and  vaunts, 
But  deeds  to  answer  to  her  call. 

Every  tale  our  cannons  tell 

Will  be  heard  in  England  well, 
And  echo  back  from  every  cliff  and  wall. 

Now,  one  more  cheer,  and  then 
To  your  work,  my  boys,  like  men, 
Like  true-hearted  English  men  ; 
And  let  each  man  fight  like  ten 
To  conquer  if  we  can  —  or  to  fall  ! 
The  time  for  talk  is  past, 
And  if  this  hour  be  your  last, 
Do  your  duty,  boys,  and  God  be  with  us 
all. 

She.  Yes  ;  that  is  honest  and  English, 
but  it  does  not  sound  exactly  like  you, 
does  it  ? 

He.  No  ;  perhaps  it  is  not  in  my  usual 
vein.  But  all  men  are  really  fighters  at 


188         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

heart.  I  mean,  all  who  are  good  for  any 
thing.  When  the  fight  in  us  is  wanting, 
we  might  as  well  give  it  up. 

She.  But  we  women  are  not  fighters, 
you  know. 

He.  Oh,  are  n't  you  ?  I  think  your  sex 
stand  to  their  guns  as  stoutly  as  ours,  and 
more  obstinately,  perhaps.  We  fight 
when  the  blood  is  up,  and  you  stand 
steadfastly  to  your  purpose,  and  will  not 
yield  when  the  blood  is  not  up. 

She.  We  are  obstinate,  you  mean. 
Thank  you. 

He.  Perhaps,  a  little.  You  don't  like 
to  give  in,  do  you  ?  You  like  to  have 
your  own  way. 

She.  I  don't  give  in  on  this  point.  Of 
course  we  like  to  have  our  way  ;  who 
does  n't  ?  But  you  men  don't  understand 
the  wear  and  tear  that  we  women  have  in 
the  worries  and  demands  of  household 
life.  You  have  fixed  and  determined 
daily  duties  to  which  you  are  bound,  and 
which  are  clear  before  you.  We  have  all 
sorts  of  little  petty  inconsecutive  irrita 
tions  of  the  household  to  worry  us,  and 
there  is  never  an  end  of  them. 

He.  I  pity  you.     They  would  kill  me, 


LATER  READINGS  189 

I  confess.  But  you  bear  them  with  equa 
nimity,  and  are  infinitely  clever  in  your 
disposal  of  them,  and  I  have  only  admi 
ration  to  give  you.  But  now,  to  change, 
as  we  say  in  the  law,  the  venue,  let  me 
read  you  a  poem  which  I  find  lying  in  my 
portfolio  by  the  side  of  the  other. 

She.  What  is  it  ?  I  hope  it  is  not  one 
of  those  sad  ones. 

He.  No,  not  very.  It  is  a  poem  that  I 
am  going  to  write  about  you  after  some 
years  have  gone  by.  I  shall,  of  course, 
a  little  exaggerate  some  facts,  but  that 
does  not  matter.  I  take  it  that  no  poet 
is  to  be  bound  down  to  exact  accuracy, 
but  only  to  what  might  have  been,  or 
what  would  have  been  so  delightful  if  it 
really  had  been,  whether  true  in  fact  or 
not.  Is  the  free  spirit  of  a  poet  to  be 
bound  down  to  facts  ?  I  mean  in  after 
years  to  read  it  to  your  daughter  or 
grand-daughter,  and  declare  it  to  be  a 
fact,  and  then  she  will  open  her  great 
blue  eyes  and  smile  upon  me,  just  as  her 
mother  or  grandmother  did.  Or  perhaps 
she  will  cruelly  say,  just  as  her  aforesaid 
mother  or  grandmother  would,  "  I  don't 
believe  one  word  of  it." 


190         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Well  ;  let  me  hear  what  you  will 
have  the  audacity  to  say. 

He.  I  shall  premise  it  by  saying, 
"  You  know,  my  dear  "  (I  shall  be  very 
affectionate),  —  "  you  know,  my  dear, 
your  mother  (or  grandmother)  was  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  and  charming  of 
women,  and  here  in  this  very  place  "  (for 
it  will  be  here  that  we  shall  meet)  "  she 
used  on  summer  mornings  to  sit  and  smile 
upon  me  with  that  delightful  smile,  and 
to  jeer  at  me  and  what  I  read  to  her  ; 
and  I,  my  dear,  used  to  be  very  foolish 
then,  whatever  I  may  now  be,  and  young, 
too." 

She.  You  certainly  can  be  foolish 
enough  ;  there  is  no  doubt  about  that. 
But  I  don't  know  whether  I  do  not  like 
your  folly  quite  as  well  as  your  wisdom. 

He.  Wisdom  is  known  of  its  children, 
you  know. 

She.  And  folly  of  its  father,  I  suppose. 
But  let  us  have  the  poem. 

He. 

Amid  the  glad  green  leaves  of  spring 
The  nightingales  are  singing, 

Their  throbbing  notes  of  happy  love 
Oil  the  fresh  morning  flinging  ; 


LATER  READINGS  191 

And,  sitting  in  the  garden  here, 

Alone,  half  broken-hearted, 
I  dream  of  thee,  and  only  thee, 

And  the  dear  days  departed. 

When  life  was  young,  and  love  was  ours, 

And  nought  we  cared  to  borrow 
Of  sad  regrets  from  yesterday, 

Or  longings  for  to-morrow, 
We  sat  beneath  these  budding  trees, 

By  nightingales  so  haunted, 
And  the  whole  world  love's  perfect  spell 

Transfigured  and  enchanted. 

Your  head  you  leaned  upon  my  breast 

In  gentle  self-surrender, 
Both   hearts   were    throbbing   with   one 
pulse 

Of  passion  sweet  and  tender. 
No  need  was  there  of  words,  for  words 

Were  all  too  cold  and  chilling 
The  perfect  bliss  of  love  to  tell, 

The  inner  life  of  feeling. 

Long   years  have  passed  —  so  long,  so 

sad  — 

Of  changeful  human  weather, 
And  here  alone  again  I  sit 


192         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Where  once  we  sat  together. 
The  young  fresh  hope,  the  daring  joy. 

The  infinite  love  and  yearning, 
Ah,  they  are  gone  !  forever  gone  ! 

To  know  no  more  returning. 

Yet  still  the  air,  the  sky,  the  earth, 

Are  haunted  by  a  feeling, 
And  silent  memories,  faint  as  ghosts, 

Through  all  the  air  are  stealing. 
You  are  not  here,  —  yet  all  the  place 

Remembers  your  dear  presence, 
And  through  the  air  a  whisper  runs 

Of  tender  reminiscence. 

The  nightingale  the  self-same  song 

That  then  he  sang  is  singing  ; 
The  same  faint  odors  pierce  my  sense, 

The  past  before  me  bringing  ; 
A  distant  dream  comes  over  me 

That  sets  my  pulses  leaping, 
And  you  once  more  beside  me  here 

The  tryst  of  love  are  keeping. 

I  dream  you  back  to  life  again, 
But  ah,  't  is  only  seeming  ! 

And  all  the  while,  with  weeping  eyes, 
I  know  I  am  but  dreaming. 


LATER  READINGS  193 

The  voice,  the  touch,  the  smile,  the  hand, 
Are  gone  that  used  to  meet  me. 

I  turn,  —  but  to  embrace  the  air,  — 
You  are  not  there  to  greet  me. 

She.  That  is  very  sad,  but  charming 
and  touching,  —  at  least  to  me.  What 
the  world  would  say  I  cannot  tell,  and  I 
do  not  care.  Let  the  world  go.  But  are 
you  not  a  little  Ashamed  of  pretending 
that  such  a  poem  could  possibly  be  ad 
dressed  to  me  ? 

He.  It  might  have  been.  The  «  might 
have  beens  "  are  so  much  more  delight 
ful  than  the  realities  of  life. 

She.  And  so  much  more  painful  and 
horrible  as  well.  For  everything  might 
have  been  so  much  worse,  as  well  as  so 
much  better,  than  it  was. 

He.  In  medio  tutissimus  ibis. 

She.  What  does  that  mean  ? 

He.  A  friend  of  mine  once  translated 
it  thus  :  "  The  ibis  is  safest  among  the 
Medes."  But  he  was  not  what  you  would 
call  an  accomplished  Latin  scholar,  and  I 
believe  it  has  been  interpreted  differently 
by  other  and  more  accomplished  scholars, 
to  mean  that  the  middle  way  is  the 


194        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

safest ;  the  mean  between  too  much  and 
too  little. 

She.  It  may  be  the  safest,  but  it  cer 
tainly  is  not  the  happiest.  Such  a  saying 
is  half-brother  to  "  Enough  is  as  good 
as  a  feast,"  which  it  never  is  ;  a  con 
temptible  kind  of  a  proverb.  It  is  a  sort 
of  a  "  while  on  the  one  hand,  yet  on  the 
other  hand,  nevertheless,"  or  "there  is 
much  to  be  said  on  both  sides,"  kind  of 
shilly-shally  saying.  Some  cold,  horrid, 
calculating,  commonplace  creature  in 
vented  them  all.  You  remember  Cole 
ridge's  lines  ?  — 

"  The  certainty  that  struck  Hope  dead 
Hath  left  Contentment  in  its  stead, 
And  that  is  next  to  best,"  — 

not  certainly  best,  but  next  to  best. 

He.  Do  you  think  everybody  should 
have  an  opinion  about  things  in  general 
or  things  in  particular?  A  good  deal 
of  what  I  hear  in  life  amounts  to  about 
this  :  — 

—  What  is  your  opinion,  dear  ? 

—  I  don't  know  ;  what  is  yours  ? 


LATER  READINGS  195 

—  I  don't  know  ;  what  is  the  general 
opinion  ? 

—  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  suppose  it  is 
what  everybody  says. 

—  And  nobody  thinks  ? 

—  Or  perhaps  what    some   one    says, 
and  everybody  repeats. 

—  Without  thinking  ? 

—  Of  course. 

She.  I  am  afraid  there  is  some  truth 
in  that.  It  is  astonishing  in  life  how  a 
hint,  a  word,  an  accidental  statement,  or 
a  willful  misstatement,  or  a  mere  guess, 
or  question,  or  playful  allusion,  uttered 
by  one  person  in  spite  or  jest,  will  grow 
and  grow  until  it  pervades  society  and 
becomes  a  fact  believed  in  by  all.  Out 
of  one  little  seed  a  gigantic  upas-tree 
will  expand  until  it  covers  and  poisons 
the  world. 

He.  And  so  in  history,  —  how  many 
facts  universally  accredited  will  not  bear 
examination  ;  but,  after  all,  what  differ 
ence  does  it  make  ?  What  is  the  use  of 
bothering  one's  head  about  it  ?  And  this, 
by  the  way,  reminds  me  of  an  incident 
that  occurred  to  a  friend  of  mine,  iu 


196         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

every  way  a  remarkable  as  well  as  a 
charming  and  beautiful  person,  of  high 
education  and  noble  manners.  She  had 
a  son  who,  from  capriciousness  and  obsti 
nacy,  and  the  Lord  knows  for  what  other 
reasons  (we  will  not  go  into  them  here), 
chose  to  marry  a  handsome  but  utterly 
illiterate  Italian  peasant.  After  the  deed 
was  done  the  mother  had  to  submit,  as 
all  mothers  must  to  the  willful  whims  of 
their  children,  and  to  make  the  best  of 
it.  Shocked  at  the  entire  ignorance,  even 
of  the  history  of  her  own  country,  her 
daughter-in-law  showed,  one  day  she 
gave  her  a  brief  account  —  very  brief, 
naturally  —  of  the  lives  and  history  of 
some  of  the  ancient  emperors  of  Rome. 
The  daughter-in-law,  after  listening  for 
a  while,  and  gaping  at  intervals,  finally 
said,  as  a  comment  on  their  lives  :  "  Erano 
cattive  genti ! "  (They  were  wicked 
people  !)  "  Si,  cara  mia,  cattivissime " 
(Yes,  my  dear,  very  wicked),  was  the 
mother's  answer.  "  E  dove  sono  adesso  ?  " 
(And  where  are  they  now  ?)  asked  the 
daughter.  "  Dove  sono  ?  Ma  son  morte 
secoli  fa  "  (Where  are  they  now  ?  Why, 
they  have  been  dead  for  centuries),  said 


LATER  READINGS  197 

the  surprised  mother.  "  Allora,"  said  her 
daughter, "  se  erano  cattive  genti,  e  se  sono 
tutte  morte,  non  ne  peusiamo  piu  "  (Then, 
if  they  were  all  bad,  and  are  all  dead, 
don't  let  us  think  of  them  any  longer). 

She.  What  a  capital  way  of  treating 
history !  If  they  were  bad  and  are  dead, 
don't  let  us  think  of  them  any  longer. 
One  cannot  deny  that  it  is  an  original 
view,  at  least.  She  must  have  been  a 
clever  girl.  Ha,  ha  !  if  they  are  dead, 
don't  let  us  think  of  them  any  more. 
Don't  let  us  trouble  our  heads  about 
them.  They  can  do  us  no  evil,  and 
can  do  us  no  good.  That  exactly  ac 
cords  with  what  you  said  a  minute  ago. 
What  difference  does  it  make  whether 
certain  accredited  facts  in  history  are 
well  founded  or  not  ? 

He.  I  won't  argue  with  you,  for  I  shall 
get  the  worst  of  it,  I  know.  There  is,  in 
fact,  very  little  use  in  arguing  with  any 
body.  After  the  argument  is  over,  in 
which  both  parties  ordinarily  lose  their 
tempers,  tlie  only  result  is  generally  that 
each  is  more  firmly  planted  in  his  own 
view.  So  don't  let  us  argue.  I  will 
agree  to  anything  you  say. 


198         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Well,  then,  read  me  another 
poem,  and  change  the  subject. 

He.  So  be  it.  I  have  just  read  you 
one  recalling  a  morning  with  you.  You 
profess  not  to  remember  that,  but  you 
certainly  will  remember  that  night  scene. 

She.  What  night  scene  ? 

He.  This  is  what  I  said  to  you  ;  or 
no  !  it  is  what  you  said  to  me  one  moon 
light  evening.  Was  it  in  July  ?  Yes,  I 
think  so. 

Ah,  what  a  glorious  night  ! 

Here  let  us  linger,  love  ! 
The  moon  with  its  tender  light 

Brims  all  the  heavens  above  ; 
Faintly  the  dim  stars  gleam, 

How  far  in  their  fathomless  deeps  ; 
And   the   earth  below,  in  its  moonlight 
dream, 

Tranced  into  silence,  sleeps. 

Silence  is  better  than  words  ; 

All  we  can  say  is  vain  ; 
For  a  spirit's   touch  sweeps   over   life's 
chords, 

And  wakes  them  to  longing  and  pain. 
There  's  the  sense  of  an  infinite  thrill, 


LATER  READINGS  199 

Of  a  whisper  that  passes  by, 
Of  a  haunting  mystery,  strange  and  still, 
We  can  only  express  by  a  sigh. 

Something  too  much  to  bear 

Is  this  terrible  secret  of  night. 
Lost  in  the  darkness,  ne'er 

Can  thought  in  its  utmost  flight 
Reach  to  the  end  of  things. 

Onward,  onward  it  goes, 
Till  weary  at  last,  and  with  broken  wings, 

It  sinks  to  the  earth's  repose. 

Our  life  is  a  secret,  dear, 

And  a  secret  't  will  ever  be. 
Who  of  us  mortals  here 

Can  fathom  its  mystery  ? 
Love  comes  —  as  comes  the  breeze  — • 

As  it  will,  without  our  art, 
And  its  blossom  wooes  from  the  trees, 

And  its  smile  from  the  human  heart. 

She.  Perhaps  I  '11  admit  that  I  wrote 
that,  if  you  '11  give  it  to  me,  and  you 
won't  tell. 

He.  I  shall  be  only  too  proud  and  happy 
to  give  it  to  you,  and  I  promise  you  I 
won't  tell. 


200        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Why  is  it  that  your  poems  are  all 
so  sad  ?  You  are  not  what  I  should  call 
a  melancholy  Jaques  in  real  life.  Very 
much  the  contrary  ;  but  all  that  you 
write  has  a  deep  touch  of  sadness. 

He.  I  do  not  know.  I  suppose  that 
far  down  in  the  unfathomed  silences  of 
all  our  natures,  unless  they  are  simply 
thoughtless  and  superficial,  there  is  a  pre 
vailing  tone  of  seriousness  and  sadness. 
The  stream  of  life  only  sparkles  and  bub 
bles  on  its  surface.  The  deeps  are  still, 
and  there  the  unknown  dwells. 

She.  Yes,  I  suppose  you  are  right. 
Even  the  happiest  memories  have  a  touch 
of  sadness,  for  they  are  only  memories, 
and  not  realities,  and  yet  it  is  a  part  of 
my  religion  that  we  ought  to  be  happy, 
and  to  enjoy  the  perpetual  gifts  that  God 
and  nature  are  so  generously  offering  us, 
instead  of  repining  and  longing  for  what 
we  have  not. 

He.  It  is  only  the  follies  of  human  be 
ings  that  provoke  our  laughter.  Nature 
never  laughs  even  in  her  brightest  days. 
At  the  best,  she  only  smiles,  but  her 
smile  is  a  smile  of  peace.  She  has  vio 
lent  storms  of  passion,  and  deep  glooms 


LATER  READINGS  201 

of  mystery,  and  darkness,  and  unfathom 
able  silences  of  feeling  ;  but  she  never 
laughs  out ;  at  least,  so  it  seems  to  me. 
She  is  never  carelessly  gay.  There  is 
always  a  feeling  of  sentiment  even  in  her 
happiest  moods. 

She.  But  we  are  always  tormenting 
ourselves  with  idle  questions,  with  useless 
regrets  and  longings,  instead  of  enjoying 
what  God  has  given.  We  are  never  con 
tent  with  the  present.  We  yearn  for  the 
impossible,  to  which  we  cannot  attain, 
and  the  human  spirit  is  never  at  rest, 
whatever  we  have.  What  is  distant, 
whether  in  the  past  or  in  the  future,  has 
a  charm  for  us  which  the  present  never 
has.  And  yet,  what  do  we  own  but  the 
present  ?  And  ought  we  not  to  strive 
to  enjoy  it,  and  thank  God  for  it  ?  —  at 
least,  as  long  as  we  are  oppressed  by  no 
deep  sorrows  and  pains.  I  do  not  be 
lieve  that  God  meant  us  to  be  wretched 
here,  and  that  the  only  way  to  heaven  is 
through  self-inflicted  sufferings  and  pen 
ances.  It  is  hard  enough  to  bear  what 
we  cannot  avoid  ;  but  why  we  should 
deny  ourselves  the  delights  and  enjoy 
ments  of  life,  which  are  innocent  in  them- 


202         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

selves  and  do  no  injury  to  any  one,  I  can 
not  understand.  On  the  contrary,  I  think 
the  true  feeling  which  should  animate 
and  guide  us  through  life  is  thankfulness 
for  what  we  have.  To  say  and  to  be 
lieve  that  all  things  that  delight  us  and 
give  us  happiness  are  mere  temptations 
of  the  evil  spirit  is,  in  my  opinion,  rank 
blasphemy.  I  think  it  is  our  duty  to  be 
happy  and  thankful,  and  to  enjoy  the 
present. 

He.  Very  true.  I  agree  to  all  you  say, 
and  somewhere  I  have  a  little  sermon 
upon  that  text.  Shall  I  read  it  to  you  ? 

She.  Do. 

He.  Let  me  see.  Where  is  it  ?  I  had 
it  here,  I  am  pretty  sure.  Oh  !  here  it 


Is  it  worth  while  to  look  upon  this  world 
As  mere  probation  for  another  state, 
Heedless    of    beauty,    scorning    all    its 

joys,— 
Where  we  are  forced  to  wander  and  to 

wait ; 

Holding  its  sweetest  music  but  as  noise, 
And  purest  pleasures  but  the  devil's  bait 
To  lure  us  to  the  loss  of  all  beyond  ; 


LATER  READINGS  203 

Deeming  we  do  God's  service  when  with 

sad 
And  downward  eyes  we  go,  and  solemn 

gait, 
Shaking  our  heads,  and  crying,  "All  is 

sad"? 

Ah,  no  !  it  is   all   good,    and  glad,  and 

fair. 
Let  us  give  thanks  to  God  for  sun  and 

air, 
And  spring  and  summer,  and  the  golden 

chain 

Of  the  recurrent  seasons,  and  sweet  flow 
ers 
Painting  the  meadows,  and  the  singing 

rain, 

And  all  the  beauty  of  this  world  of  ours 
That   far    surpasses    all    its    grief  and 

pain  ! 
What  if  those  sorrows  and   those  pains 

there  be  ; 
Why  dwell  alone  on  them  ?  Look  up  and 

see 
The   overplus  is   beauty,  —  gladness,  — 

love. 
Why    see    in    nature    nothing    but    its 

flaws? 


204         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

The  earth  is   glad   below  ;  the   heavens 

above, 
When  morning  opes  its  gates,  or  evening 

draws 
Its    splendid   curtains    in   the   west,   or 

night 
Sows  the  fair  heavens  with  constellated 

light, 
Or  the  wild  winds  and  tempests,  strong 

and  free, 

Sound   the   grand    organ  pipes   of   har 
mony, 
And   bend   the   forests,  and  arouse   the 

sea, 

And  shake  the  world  ;  or,  with  a  thun 
der  tone, 
Drive  the  black  clouds,  all  seamed  with 

lightnings,  on, 
Lifting  at  last  to  show  more  clear,  more 

fair, 
The   freshened  earth, — the  invigorated 

air, 

In  all  its  cloudless,  calm  serenity. 
Should  we  prefer  one  flat  monotony 
Of  ceaseless   sunshine  to  this  wondrous 

range 
That  Nature    plays    with   her  perpetual 

change  ? 


LATER  READINGS  205 

Let  us  be  happy,  then,  and,  grateful,  take 
What  God  hath  given,  —  not  weep,  and 

sadly  wail, 

But,  with  a  spirit  eager  and  awake, 
Seek  for  the  beauty  of   the  world,  and 

spread 

To  every  breath  of  joy  the  spirit's  sail  ; 
Doing  the  work  that  here  to  us  is  given 
With  hearts  of  gladness,  and  not  holding 

life 

As  toil  alone,  and  task,  and  endless  strife 
Of  dull  probation  for  an  after  heaven. 

It  is  the  eye  that  sees  that  makes  things 

bright 
Or  dull  and  dark.     The   world  is  what 

we  are  : 
Dark   in   our    darkness,  glorious  in  our 

light. 

Love  can  enchant  with  beauty  infinite 
The  dullest  facts,  and  sorrow  or  despair 
The     sunniest    perfectness    of     Nature 

blight. 
Then,  since    the   world  our   spirit's   life 

must  wear, 

Be  it  our  duty  not  to  mourn  and  weep, 
But  evermore  a  glad,  free  heart  to  keep, 
Feeling   that  joy   and  love   are   each  a 

prayer, 


206        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

And   when  the  earth  looks  ugly  to  our 

eyes, 
'T  is  God,  the  Maker,  that  we  criticise. 

She.  Yes,  it  is,  as  you  say,  a  little  ser 
mon,  and  might  profit  some  of  us,  if  any 
body  is  ever  profited  by  sermons.  You 
might  take  as  a  text,  "  Tongues  in  trees, 
books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons  in 
stones,  and  good  in  everything." 

He.  Yes,  and  thus  "  translate  the  stub 
bornness  of  fortune  "  — 

She.  "  Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a 
style  "  — 

He.  No,  No  !  Into  so  preaching  and 
so  tame  a  style,  I  should  rather  say,  and 
I  am  sure  my  critics  would. 

She.  No  matter  what  your  critics  would 
say.  As  for  me,  I  agree  fully  with  the 
substance  of  your  little  sermon,  but  it  is 
not  always  easy  to  be  happy,  whatever 
our  duty  is.  And  we  ought,  as  you  say, 
to  enjoy  the  present,  and  not  always  be 
looking  back  and  regretting,  or  forward 
and  hoping. 

He.  But,  —  there  is  always  a  but  to 
every  proposition,  —  but  however  we  may 
pretend  to  live  in  the  present,  in  fact  we  do 


LATER   READINGS  207 

not ;  we  live  in  what  is  past  and  in  what 
is  to  come,  —  or  what  we  think  is  to 
come,  —  far  more  than  in  what  we  have. 
Here  are  a  few  insufficient  lines  on  this 
subject  :  — 

None  are  ever  content  with  the  present, 
Though  the  present  only  we  own  : 

Age  is  forever  looking  backward 

To  the  days  and   the  things  that  are 
gone, 

And  youth  is  forever  stretching  forward 
To  the  joys  that  are  coming  on. 

Yet  all  that  we  really  have  is  the  present, 
And  that  flees  from  us  so  fast 

That,  cling  to  it  as  we  will,  we  lose  it,  — 
While  we  speak,  it  is  lost  and  past. 

For  all  things  are  ours  but  a  single  mo 
ment, 
And  scarcely  that  moment  last. 

Almost  we  might  say  that  what  is  van 
ished 

Alone  is  ours  to  keep, 
For  nothing  can  change  or  steal  it  from 

us 
Till  memory  falls  asleep. 


208        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Even  fate  itself  has  no  power  to  change 

it, 
Or  death  with  its  sickle  to  reap. 

She.  True,  true.  The  past  is  ours,  ir 
revocably  ours  ;  the  present  is  but  a  run 
ning  stream,  the  future  a  vague  promise. 
But  whatever  is,  is,  and  who  knows  any 
thing  ?  But  a  truce  to  these  sad  thoughts. 

He.  I  know  but  one  exception  to  the 
general  rule  of  discontent  that  is  almost 
universal,  and  that  is  in  a  little  stunted 
figure  of  a  woman  I  see  daily  as  I  go 
to  my  work,  who  reads  me  ever  a  silent 
lesson  by  which  I  hope  I  profit.  Na 
ture  and  the  world  have  denied  her  the 
gifts  we  all  covet,  and  yet,  apparently, 
her  heart  has  taught  her  to  take  content 
edly  what  has  been  given,  small  and  poor 
as  it  is.  The  other  day  I  wrote  these 
lines  about  her  :  — 

No  outward  things  can  happiness  bestow, 
'T  is   born  within  ;   we   give  what  we 

receive. 
The  spirit  o'er  life's  dreariest  road  can 

throw 

Joy's  light,  the  brightest  of  that  joy 
bereave. 


LATER  READINGS  209 

What,  hapless  maid,  did  God  confer  on 

thee 

Of  what  all  mortals  covet  and  desire  ? 
Health  —  beauty  —  wealth  —  the  world's 

prosperity  ? 

Or  even  the  gifts  that  humblest  lives 
require  ? 

Nothing  !      a    dwarfed,    diseased,     and 

stunted  form 
He  gave.     Pain,  poverty,  is  thine,  — 

and  want  ; 
No    grace   without,   and   yet,   within,  a 

warm 

And    patient    spirit    angels    seem   to 
haunt. 

Poor,   unrepining,   plain,  —  but    rich  in 

heart 

To  cheer  dull   Duty's  daily  common 
place 

And  sweet  content,  Life's  hardest,  happi 
est  art, 

That  even  to  rudest  facts  can  lend  a 
grace. 

When   o'er  thy  face  thy  smile  its  magic 
throws, 


210        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Plain  though  thy  features  are  in  form 

and  hue, 
It  is  as  if  an  inward  morning  rose 

And  o'er  stern  cliffs  its  sudden  glory 

threw. 

Others,   by  fortune  blessed  with  lavish 

dower, 
Still   covet   more,   and   o'er   their  lot 

lament  ; 
But  thou,   in   gratitude   for   life's   least 

flower, 
Art  happier  far  and  richer,  in  content. 

There,  cold  or  hot,  rain,  storm,  or  cloud 
less  skies, 

Patient  you  sit,  your  petty  wares  out 
spread 
On  the  stone  steps  ;  and  as  I  pass  you 

rise 

And  greet  me  with  a  smile,  and  nod 
your  head. 

That  smile  is  as  a  rose  for  me  to  wear, 
Which  lends  a  perfume  to  the  dreari 
est  day  ; 

A  silent  lesson,  that  life's  worrying  care 
Rebukes,  and  bids  me  for  contentment 
pray. 


LATER  READINGS  211 

She.  You  must  show  me  this  woman. 

He.  Gladly.  When  I  think  how  mis 
erable  is  her  lot,  and  still  what  a  bright 
and  happy  face  she  has  despite  it  all, 
I  feel  deeply  rebuked  for  my  vain  long 
ings  and  dissatisfaction  with  what  I  have. 
Ah,  yes,  the  lines  of  Coleridge  are  true 
to  her,  that  we  were  quoting  a  few  min 
utes  ago  :  — 

"  The  certainty  that  struck  hope  dead 
Hath  left  contentment  in  its  stead." 

And  perhaps  that  is  not  only,  in  her  case, 
next  to  best,  but  best. 

She.  Well,  well !  All  I  have  to  say  is 
that  the  world  is  what  we  make  it.  But 
now  let  us  have  something  of  a  lighter, 
gayer  sort,  —  something  with  a  little  less 
sadness  and  retrospection,  and  more  go. 

He.  A  gallop,  for  instance. 

She.  Oh,  yes  !  A  gallop  in  the  fresh 
air  and  the  fresh  morning.  Pray  order 
the  horses  at  once.  The  very  word  "  gal 
lop  "  makes  my  blood  tingle  and  spin  to 
the  ends  of  my  fingers.  But  I  know 
you.  You  only  mean  to  taunt  me.  You 
have  no  such  poem. 


212         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  Oh,  but  I  have,  may  it  please  your 
highness,  and  the  horses  are  saddled  and 
ready,  and  gnawing  at  their  bits.  One 
spring,  —  give  me  your  foot  (I  do  not 
dare  to  ask  for  your  hand).  There,  and 
now  are  you  ready  ? 

She.  Quite,  and  impatient  to  be  off. 

He.  And  where  shall  we  go  ? 

She.  Anywhere  ;  you  shall  lead  the 
way. 

He.  And  you  will  trust  to  my  guid 
ance  ? 

She.  As  long  as  you  behave  yourself 
with  sanity. 

He.  Oh,  I  cannot  promise  to  be  sane, 
galloping  with  you  at  my  side.  You 
must  take  leave  of  the  flat  plains  of  san 
ity,  if  you  accept  me  for  a  guide  ;  for  I 
shall  carry  you  far  beyond  them,  into  the 
regions  of  dreams  and  wild  wishes. 

She.  Well,  mount  your  horse  at  once 
and  let  us  be  off. 

He.  All  right,  gather  up  your  reins, 
and 

Come,  let  us  gallop,  gallop  along  ! 

'T  is  so  golden  sweet  this  early  May, 
The    hedges    and   trees   are   alive   with 
song, 


LATER  READINGS  213 

And  heaven  is  thrilled  by  the  lark's 

far  lay. 
Our  horses  are   fresh.     How  they  sniff 

the  air, 
And   spread    their  nostrils,  and  snort 

and  neigh  ! 

Come,  love,  let  us  be  off  and  away, 
And  fling  to  the  foul  fiend  every  care. 

Ah,  how  glorious  't  is  !     How  glad 
Nature  seems  to  be  all  at  play  ! 
'T  would  be  almost  a  sin  to  be  dull  and 

sad 
On  a  day  like  this,  —  such  a  glorious 

day. 
Since  we  cannot  fly,  let  us  ride  —  ride  — 

ride  — 

Whither  and  where,  who  cares  to  say  ? 
Anywhere  —  everywhere  —  riding   al- 

way, 
You  and  I  together,  side  by  side. 

I  don't  know  why  we  should  ever  stop, 
Why   the    morning   should   fade    into 

evening's  gray, 
Why  life  from  its  grasp  youth's  flowers 

should  drop, 
And  age  on  our  spirit  its  cold  hand  lay. 


214        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Time  goes  ever  and  ever  on, 
Never  is  weary,  knows  no  stay  ; 
And  why  should  not  youth  be  ours  al- 
way, 

And  love,  and  joy,  till  our  course  is  run  ? 

Happiness  now  is  in  the  air 

And  our  hearts  are  young  and  light 

and  gay  ; 

Let  us  not  darken  the  morning  with  care, 
As  we   gallop   along  youth's   flowery 

way  ; 

Let  us  dream  it  will  last  forever  thus, 
Let  us  gather  our  roses  while  we  may, 
And  be  glad  in  the  present,  and  silently 

pray 
That  life  may  be  ever  so  to  us. 

Oh,  love,  what  a  glory  and  bloom  you 
give 

To  the  commonest  things  of  every  day ; 
Now,  't  is  enough  to  breathe  and  live. 

If  time  and  love  would  together  stay, 
What  could  we  ask  for  more  sweet  and 
fair 

Than  thus  to  go  on  with  youth  alway, 

We  both  together,  with  love  and  May, 
And  the  perfume  of  morning  in  the  air  ? 


LATER  READINGS  215 

There  is  only  one  thought  of  doubt  and 

fear, 
That  looms   from    afar,  so   faint  and 

gray,  — 
Lest  we  should  be  parted,  and  one  left 

here, 

And  the  other  ruthlessly  taken  away. 
For  life  is  cruel,  and  fate  unkind, 

And  what   may  come  to  us  who   can 

say  ? 
But  away  with  forebodings,   for  now 

't  is  May, 

And  love  to  such  fears  must  be  deaf  and 
blind. 

She.  Yes,  that  is  out  of  a  different 
mint  ;  but,  as  usual,  despite  the  bright 
ness  and  spirit,  there  is  that  little  cloud 
on  the  horizon  that  one  cannot  help  see 
ing,  —  or  feeling,  at  least,  if  one  does  not 
see,  —  that  faint  foreboding,  that  dark 
possibility  that  will  intrude  upon  our 
gladdest  hours.  Who  has  ever  seen  in 
life  a  perfectly  clear  sky  ? 

He.  Would  there  be  any  sentiment  in 
life  without  it  ?  Those  little  clouds  afar 
off  lend  their  charm  to  our  being,  and 
take  the  tenderest  hues  of  the  morning 


216        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

and  of  the  evening.  Life  would,  per 
haps,  even  at  its  best,  be  vapid  and  mo 
notonous  without  them.  Look  at  the  val 
leys  and  mountains  sleeping  below  in  the 
distance,  over  which  soft  silence  broods. 
Is  it  not  the  tender  haze  of  blue  that 
envelops  them  that  lends  them  their  ex 
quisite  charm  ?  Sweep  it  away  entirely, 
and  what  would  remain  but  a  cold,  hard 
reality  ? 

She.  Yes  ;  Nature  in  her  most  poetic 
moods  always  plays  in  the  minor  tone. 
She  never  heartily  laughs,  as  you  said,  and 
any  laugh,  even  of  gladness,  has  in  itself 
something  a  little  jarring  in  its  sound, 
from  however  gay  a  heart  it  comes.  It 
is  as  closely  related  to  a  mere  noise  as  a 
smile  is  to  a  silent  melody.  A  laugh 
simply  irritates  the  nerves  ;  a  smile 
touches  the  feelings. 

He.  Can  anything  be  less  enchanting 
than  silently  to  listen  to  a  crowd  of  gay 
people  all  laughing  together,  and  think 
ing,  or  making  believe,  that  they  are 
happy  ?  It  is  all  very  well  when  one  is 
joining  in  the  discordant  chorus  of  spas 
modic  voices  ;  but  when  one  stands  aloof 
from  it,  and  simply  listens,  what  a  de 
testable  noise  it  is  ! 


LATER  READINGS  217 

She.  So  it  is  ;  and  it  is  curious  that  the 
animals  do  not  laugh.  That  is  the  ac 
complishment  of  human  beings  only. 

He.  I  confess  that  I  do  not  know  much 
about  angels,  but  I  do  not  believe  they 
laugh.  At  all  events,  they  are  never 
represented  as  laughing  by  poets  or 
painters.  It  is  the  fiends  only  that  laugh, 
if  we  may  trust  what  the  poets  say. 

She.  May  I  look  at  that  manuscript 
book  of  yours  ? 

He.  Certainly.     There  it  is. 

She.  Thanks.  Why,  here  are  sketches, 
as  well  as  poems  and  notes. 

He.  Yes,  it  is  an  odd  collection  of  all 
sorts  of  things.  I  always  carry  one  of 
these  books  in  my  pocket,  so  that  I  may 
write  down  anything  that  occurs  to  me  in 
my  ramblings.  You  see,  here  are  little 
sketches  of  many  different  things,  —  land 
scape,  houses,  bits  of  scenery,  heads  and 
figures,  —  as  well  as  scribblings  of  verses 
and  excerpts  from  books  that  I  am  read 
ing,  when  the  passages  particularly  strike 
me.  They  are  mostly  very  carelessly 
done,  but  they  serve  to  recall  persons 
and  places,  and  make  for  me  a  little  diary 
of  what  otherwise  would  vanish  utterly, 


218         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

or  at  least  but  dimly  remain  in  my  mem 
ory.  Some  of  the  verses  I  have  read  to 
you,  as  you  will  see,  are  in  the  portfolio 
of  the  book,  and  I  happen  to  have  them 
with  me  because  I  was  questioning  as  to 
whether  it  was  worth  my  while  to  make 
a  little  collection  of  them  and  publish 
them,  and  I  took  them  out  here  with  me 
the  day  before  yesterday  to  look  them 
over. 

She.  Oh,  I  hope  you  will  decide  to  pub 
lish  them. 

He.  Perhaps  I  shall  ;  and  then  again 
perhaps  I  shall  not.  The  pleasure  is  in 
the  doing.  When  things  are  done, — 
they  are  done,  and  dead.  I  lose  my  in 
terest  in  them.  It  is  what  I  am  going 
to  do  —  or  am  doing  —  that  interests 
me,  and  beckons  and  allures  me  on  with 
smiles.  What  is  done  only  frowns  upon 
me,  and  sneers  at  me,  and  says  :  "  It  is 
not  much  of  a  thing,  after  all,  is  it  ?  " 

She.  That  it  may  seem  so  to  you  I 
quite  understand.  But  the  case  is  differ 
ent  for  those  who  read  and  hear.  If 
you  fail  to  satisfy  yourself,  you  may  give 
pleasure  to  others,  and  I  think  it  is  a 
little  selfish  in  you  to  keep  all  these 


LATER  READINGS  219 

poems  to  yourself.  You  ought  to  publish 
them. 

He.  Selfish !  Oh,  I  like  that !  Self 
ish,  indeed  ;  I  should  rather  say  shy  or 
proud,  or,  still  better,  modest.  You 
laugh.  But  really  I  am  modest,  and  don't 
like  to  be  slapped  in  the  face,  or  to  ex 
pose  myself  to  attack.  So  long  as  I  don't 
publish,  nobody  can  attack  me.  If  I 
once  publish,  then  I  am  the  butt  for  all 
the  critics.  I  only  wish  I  could  flatter 
myself  with  even  the  suspicion  that  in 
withholding  these  verses  from  the  public 
I  am  selfish.  My  doubt  is  whether  it 
would  think  them  worth  reading  at  all. 

She.  You  see  I  do. 

He.  Ah,  but  you  are  a  friend,  and  the 
public  is  not  a  friend  ;  and  though  the 
saying  is  that  "  you  should  not  look  a 
gift  horse  in  the  mouth,"  the  critic,  and 
indeed  the  world  in  general,  always  does 
look,  the  moment  the  horse  is  given.  As 
for  the  critics,  they  always  know  better 
than  the  author  what  he  ought  to  have 
done  and  how  he  ought  to  have  done  it. 
Their  province  is  to  find  fault  with  any 
thing  and  everything,  and  show  their  own 
superior  knowledge  and  ability.  But 


220         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

somehow  or  other,  when  they  try  it  them 
selves,  they  don't  always  show  that  su 
periority.  And  besides,  though  I  say  it 
with  fear  and  trembling,  they  are  not 
always  so  absolutely  right  as  they  think 
themselves.  I  won't  say  anything  about 
a  certain  William  Shakespeare,  or  Shak- 
spere,  or  Shaxper,  whom  the  world  of 
contemporaries  patted  on  the  head,  ac 
knowledging  he  was  a  good  fellow,  but 
shaking  their  heads  sadly  and  patroniz 
ingly  over  his  works,  or  accusing  him  of 
"  beautifying  himself  with  others'  feath 
ers  "  and  "  thinking  himself  the  only 
shake  scene  in  the  country,"  and  wishing 
he  "  had  blotted  a  thousand  lines  "  and 
followed  their  advice.  At  all  events, 
some  of  his  great  plays,  whatever  he 
thought  of  them,  were  never  printed  or 
published  by  him,  but  only  by  others  and 
long  after  his  death,  he  being,  as  you 
would  say,  perhaps,  a  little  too  selfish, 
or,  as  I  should  say,  too  modest  — 

She.  No  !  really  ! 

He.  Undoubtedly;  and  for  those  that 
were  printed  he  seems  to  have  cared  very 
little.  At  all  events,  he  allowed  them  to 
be  printed  in  the  most  careless,  imper- 


LATER  READINGS  221 

feet,  and  mutilated  form.  Such,  for  in 
stance,  was  the  case  with  "  Hamlet ;  "  and 
as  for  "Julius  Csesar,"  "  Cymbeline," 
«  Coriolanus,"  "  Henry  VIII.,"  and 
"  Othello,"  they  were  not  published  until 
from  five  to  seven  years  after  his  death. 
But,  setting  aside  the  "  Great  Williams," 
as  our  French  friend  called  him,  look 
in  our  own  time  at  the  first  reception 
of  Wordsworth  by  the  world  of  critics, 
and  remember  the  "  This  will  never  do  " 
of  Gifford  on  Wordsworth's  early  vol 
umes.  It  managed  to  do,  did  n't  it,  after 
all  ?  And  then  please  to  remember  what 
the  first  judgment  of  the  world  was  of 
Keats  and  Shelley,  and  compare  it  with 
to-day's  opinion  of  their  poems.  Almost 
one  could  say  that  nothing  of  really  great 
originality  and  excellence  is  ever  well  re 
ceived  by  the  world  at  first.  An  author 
has  to  make  his  public,  and  to  make  it 
slowly.  Not  that  I  would,  in  the  faint 
est  way,  presume  to  imagine  that  there 
is  anything  in  common  between  these 
poor  little  things  of  mine  and  the  works 
of  any  really  original  men  such  as  those 
I  have  spoken  of.  Far  from  it.  The 
best  that  can  be  said  of  them,  even  by  a 


222        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

friend,  is  that  they  are  not  so  utterly 
bad  as  they  might  have  been  ;  and  that  is 
not  any  great  praise,  is  it  ?  And  then, 
perhaps,  they  have  a  worse  fault,  —  of 
being  simply  commonplace.  And  so  I 
am  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  selfish 
in  keeping  them  to  myself. 

She.  But  is  it  true,  as  you  say,  that 
Shelley  was  not  accepted  as  a  poet  at 
once  ?  Wordsworth,  I  know,  was  not, 
but  Shelley,  —  that  is  difficult  to  believe. 

He.  Well,  then,  listen  to  words  of  his 
reviewer  in  the  great  "  Quarterly  Re 
view."  I  have  them,  or  some  of  them, 
here  somewhere,  for  I  was  reading  this 
criticism  the  other  day,  and  it  amused  me 
so  much  that  I  copied  one  or  two  sen 
tences.  Stop  a  moment,  and  I  will  find 
them.  Ah,  here  they  are.  The  critic  in 
the  "  Quarterly  "  says  :  "  The  predom 
inating  characteristic  of  his  poetry  is  its 
frequent  and  total  want  of  meaning  ; " 
and  he  describes  his  "Prometheus"  as 
"in  sober  sadness  driveling  prose  run 
mad."  But  this  is  nothing  compared 
with  what  the  critic  in  the  "  Literary 
Gazette"  says  of  the  tragedy  of  the 
"Cenci,"  which  he  speaks  of  as  "the 


LATER  READINGS  223 

most  abominable  work  of  the  time ; "  and 
he  hopes  never  again  to  see  a  book  "  so 
stamped  with  pollution,  impiousness,  and 
infamy."  As  for  the  "  Prometheus,"  it 
is,  in  his  opinion,  "  little  else  but  abso 
lute  raving,  and,  were  we  not  assured 
to  the  contrary,  we  should  take  it  for 
granted  that  the  author  was  a  lunatic,  as 
his  principles  are  ludicrously  wicked,  and 
his  poetry  a  melange  of  nonsense,  cock- 
neyism,  poverty,  and  pedantry;"  and 
further  on  he  speaks  of  "  the  stupid 
trash  of  this  delirious  dreamer,"  and  his 
"  tissue  of  insufferable  buffoonery." 

She.  I  confess  I  am  surprised.  I  could 
not  have  believed  this  possible.  Is  this  a 
hoax  of  yours  ? 

He.  No,  not  at  all ;  it  is  a  plain  fact. 
It  is  curious  to  contrast  with  these  ex 
pressions  the  modern  estimate  of  Shel 
ley.  William  Michael  Rossetti,  in  his 
memoir  of  Shelley,  says,  speaking  of  the 
"  Prometheus,"  that  in  his  opinion  "  there 
is  no  poem  in  English  poetry  comparable, 
in  the  fair  sense  of  that  word,  to  it.  The 
immense  scale  and  boundless  scope  of  the 
conception,  the  marble  majesty  and  extra- 
mundane  passions  of  the  personages,  the 


224        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

radiance  of  ideal  and  poetic  beauty  which 
saturates  every  phrase  of  the  subject," 
etc.,  "  form  a  combination  not  to  be 
matched  elsewhere,  and  scarcely  to  en 
counter  competition."  "  It  is  the  ideal 
poem  of  perpetual  and  triumphant  pro 
gression."  And  of  the  "  Cenci  "  he  speaks 
as  "his  one  unparalleled  masterpiece," 
and  as  "  a  splendid  performance,"  which 
"  the  soundest  and  finest  minds "  are 
"  fully  justified  in  preferring "  to  the 
"  Prometheus."  There  is  a  difference  of 
opinion,  is  there  not  ?  So  you  see  that 
the  first  judgment  of  the  world  of  critics 
as  to  poetry  does  not  always  coincide 
with  its  last. 

She.  Both,  perhaps,  are  wrong ;  the 
one  on  the  side  of  too  little  appreciation 
and  the  other  of  too  great  exaggeration. 
I  don't  think  I  could  go  so  far  as  Mr. 
Rossetti  in  the  estimate  he  places  on  the 
"  Prometheus  "  and  the  «  Cenci,"  glori 
ous  as  I  think  some  of  Shelley's  other  and 
smaller  poems  are.  Still,  I  cannot  con 
ceive  how  anybody  could  be  so  blind  and 
self-willed  as  those  old  reviewers  whose 
criticisms  you  have  cited.  But  since  you 
say  that  nothing  very  original  ever  finds 


LATER  READINGS  225 

at  once  its  public,  or  is  kindly  received,  it 
ought  to  comfort  and  flatter  you  if  your 
verses  are  even  rejected  at  first.  You 
ought  to  hope  that  they  would  not  be 
well  received.  At  all  events,  I  think  you 
should  better  try  it. 

He.  Well,  perhaps  I  will.  Still,  you 
see,  provided  I  keep  them  in  my  private 
portfolio  I  can  indulge  myself  with  all 
sorts  of  imaginary  ideas  about  them. 
While  the  world  outside  bustles  and 
cries  and  fights,  I  sit  in  my  study  and 
enjoy  my  seclusion  from  it  all,  and  am 
protected  from  all  attacks,  so  long  as 
I  do  not  expose  my  life  and  my  verses. 
But  if  I  go  out  I  must  be  ready  to  brave 
the  storm  and  the  gale.  Here  I  sit  and 
enjoy  the  comforts  of  privacy,  and  hold 
commune  with  the  spirits  of  the  past,  or 
sit  over  the  fire  with  a  friend,  and  keep 
my  temper,  and  indulge  in  all  sorts  of 
quiet  and  peaceful  occupations  or  silent 
musings.  And,  apropos,  let  me  recall  to 
you  those  charming  lines  you  wrote  some 
twenty  years  or  more  ago. 

She.  I  must  have  been  very  young 
then  to  have  written  any  verses,  or,  at 
least,  any  worth  reading. 


226         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  Oh,  when  you  wrote  these  verses 
you  were  at  least  twenty  years  older  than 
you  are  now,  —  or  you  imagine  yourself 
to  be.  But  you  surely  remember  that  you 
had  a  cottage  by  the  seaside,  and  a  hus 
band  and  two  children,  who  were  perfect 
angels,  of  course;  don't  you  remember? 

She.  Not  exactly  ;  and,  particularly,  I 
don't  remember  the  husband,  nor  the 
children,  that  you  say  were  such  angels. 

He.  Don't  remember  !  why,  you  wrote 
those  verses  about  them,  in  which  you 
describe  an  evening  in  the  cottage  dur 
ing  a  storm,  and  you  know  you  gave 
them  to  me  ! 

She.  Well,  let  me  hear  them,  then.  I 
shall  be  so  glad  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  my  husband  and  children,  for  I  have 
never  seen  them,  —  either  of  them. 

He.  Well,  this  is  your  poem  :  — 

AT   THE   FIRESIDE  — BY   THE  SEA 
SIDE. 

How  the  wind  roars  ! 

How  the  rain  pours, 
Pressing  with  furious  gusts  the  pane, 
And  lashing  against  them  with  streams  of 
rain 

Again,  and  yet  again  ! 


LATER  READINGS  227 

And  how  black  it  is  outside  !  how  drear  ! 

Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
I  'm  so  glad  with  you  to  be  well  housed 

here, 

Here,  in  this  peaceful  privacy, 
So  peaceful,  so  free  from  fear. 

Hark  to  the  tempest,  the  distant  roar 
Of  the  thundering   breakers    along   the 

shore  ; 

And  think  of  the  sailors  out  at  sea, 
Where  the  wild   sea-horses   are  flinging 

their  manes 
To  the  angry  blast,  and  rearing  their 

crest, 
And  madly  plunging  as  if  possessed 

By  the  demon  of  the  air, 
And  sweeping  the  deck,  as  their  poor  ship 

strains 
Like    a    giant,    struggling,    staggering, 

fighting, 

As  the  seas  against  her  beat,  — 
Almost  I  can  see  them  there  ! 

Think   of  them,  dear,   on  this   horrible 

night 
And  here,  —  so  near,  —  scarcely  out  of 

sight, 


228         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Almost  at  our  very  feet, 
Hark  !  on  the  cliffs  with  a  wild  unrest 
How  the  surf-waves  beat  and  dash  their 

breast, 
Storming    them    fiercely   with   angry 

sleet,  — 

Or  rushing  like  charges  of  cavalry, 
And  thundering  along  the  beach  !     Ah 

me  ! 

For  the  poor  drenched  sailors  out  at  sea, 
How  sad  it  must  be  !    How  sad  it  must 

be! 
How  fearful  it  all  must  be  ! 

And  for  those  on  shore,  crouching  down 

to  the  storm 
That  shakes  and  roars  in  the  groaning 

trees, 
'Neath  the  shelter  of  hedges,  or  forcing 

their  track 
In  the  face  of   the   blast,  whose  wild 

gusts  seize 
And    tear    their   close  -  wrapped    cloaks 

from  their  back, 
As  stern  on  their   desolate  path   they 

go,— 

Striving  and  straining,  their  heads  bent 
low, 


LATER  READINGS  229 

Longing'  for    home   and    the    fireside 

glowj 
And   the  wife  and   the  children   that 

there  are  at  play,  — 
And  the  home  and  the  fireside  so  far 

away  ! 
And  the  heavens  above  them  so  wild  and 

black  ! 
While   we,  well  housed  and   out  of  the 

storm, 
Are     sitting     together,     contented     and 

warm  ; 
With  the  bright  fire  glowing,  the  lamps 

alight, 

And  nothing  to  trouble  us  two  ; 
Only  in  thought  going  forth  to  the  drear, 
Wild  tempest  outside,  with  a  shudder  of 

fear 

And  a  sympathy,  silent,  but  true, 
For  all  who,  unhoused,  on   this  terrible 

night, 

For  their  life,  —  for  their  home, —  must 
struggle  and  fight. 

Let  us  be  grateful,  then,  to  be  here, 
Housed  and  happy,  as  we  are,  dear  ! 
Both,  both  together,  beyond  the  blast, 
With  nothing  to  do,  and  nothing  to  fear; 


230        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

To  love  and  be  silent,  to  hope  and  to 
dream, 

Now  of  the  future  and  now  of  the  past  ; 

And  stretch  out  our  hands  to  the  fire 
light's  gleam  ; 

I  with  my  knitting,  and  you  with  your 
book, 

From  which  you  at  intervals  lift  up  your 
eyes,  — 

At  times  with  approval,  at  times  with 
surprise,  — 

Some  passage  to  read,  or  to  criticise  ; 

This  one  to  praise,  and  that  to  rebuke, 

Or  say  that  the  world  was  so  far  more 
wise 

In  the  good  old  days  ere  its  ways  it  for 
sook  ; 

Or  you  go  to  the  window,  and,  shudder 
ing,  look 

Into  the  darkness  that  shrouds  the  skies  ; 

Or,  pacing  the  carpet,  stride  to  and  fro, 

Picking  its  patterns  for  steps  as  you  go, 

Till,  tired  of  pacing  our  deck,  you  then 

Come  back  to  your  chair  and  your  book 
again. 

The  very  tempest  that  roars  outside, 
And  shakes  the  shutters  with  rattle  and 
din, 


LATER  READINGS  231 

Makes  it  by  contrast  more  cheerful  with 
in, 

As  here  we  sit,  so  calm  and  serene, 
Whatsoever  the  outer  world  may  betide  ; 
Both  the  children  abed  and  asleep    up 
stairs, 

Of  the  storm's  wild  fury  quite  unawares, 
And  not  even  disturbed  by  a  dream, 
While  we,  with  nought  in  the  world  so 

wide 

To  plague   us,  are  sitting  here   side  by 
side. 

But     hark  !      what     was     that,  —  that 

scream  ? 

Was  it  theirs  —  was  it  theirs  ? 
Stop  !   listen  !    ah   no  !    't  was   only   the 

wind 

Tearing  away  at  the  blind. 
Thank  heaven,  it  was   not   their  voices. 

No  !  no  ! 
But  it  startled  me  so  !  it  startled  me  so  ! 

She.  And  those  are  my  verses,  you 
say.  Well,  give  them  to  me.  If  they 
were  mine,  I  must  have  been  a  delight 
ful,  sympathetic  old  woman,  whatever  I 
am  as  a  young  woman. 


232        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  There  they  are;  take  them.  You 
were  a  charming  old  woman  then,  as  you 
are  a  charming  young  woman  now. 

She,  I  make  you  my  humblest  bow, 
or  curtsey.  But  seriously,  to  return  to 
what  we  were  saying  before.  This  poem 
is  all  very  well  as  a  picture  of  home  com 
fort,  undisturbed  by  the  wild  voices  of 
the  outer  world.  I  have  nothing  to  say 
against  it.  Your  imagined  family  —  I 
mean  to  say  my  husband  and  I  —  were 
undoubtedly  right  in  congratulating  our 
selves  on  our  comfortable  and  pleasant 
fireside  out  of  the  storm.  But  for  any 
writer  to  withhold  his  works  from  the 
public  on  such  a  plea  seems  to  me  to 
argue  cowardice  as  well  as  selfishness. 

He.  As  for  cowardice,  I  will  not  say 
that  you  are  not  right,  or,  at  least,  par 
tially  right.  The  harsh  words  of  the 
world  affect  us  deeply,  however  we  admit 
their  truth  and  their  justice  ;  ay  !  and 
more,  perhaps,  than  the  kind  words  of 
friends  gratify  us.  So  long  as  we  keep 
ourselves  to  ourselves,  we  are  not  ex 
posed  to  this.  And,  after  all,  what  right 
have  any  of  us  to  expect  better  treat 
ment  than  we  get,  to  receive  what,  I 


LATER  READINGS  233 

concede,  we  desire,  —  in  trembling  and 
doubt  perhaps,  but  still  we  do  desire. 
Besides,  I  am  not  willing  to  accept  the 
public  verdict,  or,  at  least,  the  first  ver 
dict  of  the  world,  as  to  the  value  of  what 
we  do,  and  that  is  all  I  shall  ever  know. 
It  may  be  right,  or  it  may  be  wrong,  but 
it  annoys  us  none  the  less  when  it  is 
wrong.  As  for  selfishness,  there  I  make 
a  stand.  Even  if  I  am  selfish,  who  is  not 
in  this  world,  and  what  is  not?  Our 
ambition  certainly  is,  and  so  is  our  fear, 
and  so  is  our  love.  They  who  are  in  love 
think  only  of  themselves. 

She.  Oh,  no  !  not  those  who  are  in 
love.  They  look  kindly  on  every  person 
and  thing  in  the  world.  Love  lends  a 
kindly  seeing  to  the  eye. 

He.  Except  for  those  who  interfere 
with  their  private  and  personal  satisfac 
tions.  Lovers  all  hate  the  world,  and 
only  desire  to  be  alone  together.  1  am 
afraid  I  have  been  talking  a  little  big, 
and  as  if  I  had  a  certain  spite  against 
the  world,  arising  from  disappointment 
or  ill-humor,  and  as  not  having  received 
my  right  appreciation  from  it.  But,  if 
so,  I  have  been  utterly  false  to  myself.  I 


234         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

have  everything,  as  far  as  this  world 
goes,  to  be  grateful  for,  and  nobody  thinks 
less  of  his  deserts  than  I  do.  Bah!  but 
I  will  not  talk  about  myself  any  more. 
What  I  know  and  think  is  simply  this,  — 
I  have  no  splendid  greenhouses  and  gor 
geous  gardens  filled  with  exotics  and  won 
derful  flowers.  No,  no  !  — 

Mine  'a  but  a  kitchen  garden 

Of  herbs,  unpretending  and  low, 
Where  marjoram,  borage,  and  basil, 

And  sage,  and  sweet  lavender  grow. 
There  is  rosemary,  too,  for  remembrance, 

Coriander,  mint,  dittany,  dill  ; 
And  with  savory,  sorrel,  thyme,  parsley, 

You  your  Perdita's  basket  may  till. 

But  there  is  not  one  stately  white  lily 

To  lend  its  virginal  grace, 
Nor  a  rose,  nor  a  spicy  carnation, 

To    charm    and    enchant     the    whole 

place. 
On  its  wall  climbs  no  delicate  jasmine  ; 

No  sweet  honeysuckle  is  there  ; 
No  !    nor   even  the  tulip,   with  shaking 
cup, 

Nor  camellia,  cold  arid  fair. 


LATER  READINGS  235 

It  is  but  a  humble  garden, 

With  scarcely  a  flower  to  see, 
Save  some  pausies  for  thought,  and  some 

violets 

Half  hidden,  that  there  may  be. 
Kind  friends  may  stoop  down  and  gather 

them, 

If  there  they  should  chance  to  stray, 
But  the  world   says,  They  are   so  com 
mon,  — 
And  turns  with  a  sneer  away. 

No  matter  !  however  common 

My  little  garden  of  herbs, 
It  gives  me  pleasure  to  plant  them  and 
till  them, 

And  no  one  it  harms  or  disturbs. 
They  serve,  too,  life's  daily  living 

To  season,  and  flavor  to  lend. 
But  if  they  are  not  to  your  taste,  God 
help  us, 

I  've  nothing  to  say,  good  friend. 

There,  that  's  the  way  I  feel  about  the 
whole  matter. 

She.  Well,  I  don't  find  any  fault  with 
it.  It  is  modest,  at  least,  and  modesty 
is  a  rare  thing  to  meet  with  nowadays. 


236        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Perhaps  you  don't  quite  do  yourself  jus 
tice,  but  that  is  better  than  bragging. 
"  Fire  low,"  you  remember,  was  Crom 
well's  command  to  his  army.  "  Trust  in 
God,  and  fire  low."  It  is  good  policy,  too. 

He.  Perhaps,  though,  the  world  in  such 
cases  is  very  ready  to  take  you  at  your 
own  estimation.  Pretension  too  often 
carries  the  day  over  real  merit  and 
power.  It  is  not  always,  indeed  it  is  very 
seldom,  that  the  best  and  the  strongest 
are  set  in  the  highest  places. 

She.  Still,  I  think  everybody  finds  his 
true  level  at  last. 

He.  Do  you?  Happy  and  trustful 
you  !  I  don't  agree  with  you  ;  at  least, 
I  should  n't  if  I  dared  to  disagree. 

She.  I  suppose  there  is  a  good  deal  to 
be  said  on  both  sides,  as  there  always  is. 

He.  It  is  good  policy,  you  just  said,  to 
be  modest.  I  hate  the  word  "  policy," 
and  the  thing.  Honesty  may,  as  it  is 
said,  be  the  best  policy,  but  there  is 
something  degrading  in  being  honest  for 
the  sake  of  policy.  Let  us  be  brave  to 
say  and  to  be  what  we  really  and  truly 
are  and  think,  and  not  compromise  our 
conscience  by  lies  and  pretenses,  however 


LATER  READINGS  237 

politic,  for  it  is  a  lie  to  pretend  to  be 
what  you  know  you  are  not.  Policy  and 
Expediency,  who  are  twin-brothers,  are 
both  of  them  surreptitious  claimants,  who 
are  seeking  falsely  to  acquire  the  rights 
and  property  of  Honor  and  Honesty,  that 
do  not  really  belong  to  them. 

She.  I  fear,  if  those  are  your  principles 
of  conduct  and  speech,  that  you  will  not 
get  on  very  far  with  the  world. 

He.  Perhaps  I  shall  not.  I  did  not 
say  that  I  should. 

She.  May  I  look  at  that  manuscript 
book  of  yours  again  ?  Are  these  first 
drafts  of  poems,  or  have  you  copied  them 
out? 

He.  Some  of  them  I  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  copy  out,  but  for  the  most  part 
they  are  just  as  I  wrote  them,  with  all 
their  faults. 

She.  But  in  some  of  them  there  are 
scarcely  any  erasures  or  corrections. 

He.  I  dare  say  there  is  a  lot  of  rub 
bish. 

She.  Do  you  correct  and  elaborate 
much  ? 

He.  Look  for  yourself,  and  you  '11  see. 
Everything  depends  upon  the  mood  I  am 


238         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

in,  and  whether  I  am  in  a  free  vein. 
Then  things  come  to  me  very  rapidly  ; 
and  when  this  is  the  case  I  generally  do 
my  best  —  poor  as  it  is  —  at  first,  and 
I  only  make  what  I  have  done  colder  by 
correction.  When  the  mood  is  gone,  the 
words  and  thoughts  that  fit  to  it  go  too. 
One  can't,  or  at  least  I  can  not,  under 
stand  how  one  can  write  a  poem  of 
"malice  prepense,"  as  we  say  in  the 
law.  Thought  and  feeling  should  be 
molten  to  flow  into  the  mould  of  a  poem, 
not  hammered  and  filed  into  shape.  I 
speak  for  myself  only,  not  for  others.  I 
know  many  poets  polish,  and  change,  and 
elaborate  with  great  fastidiousness.  I 
doubt  whether  they  always,  by  so  doing, 
better  their  poems,  —  if  they  are  real 
poems.  But  on  this,  as  well  as  on  all 
other  subjects,  there  is  much  to  be  said 
on  both  sides.  Mere  facility  is  apt  to 
degenerate  into  careless  and  slovenly 
garrulity,  and  too  much  labor  and  fas 
tidiousness  into  hardness  and  coldness. 
Out  of  the  fullness  of  the  heart  the 
mouth  speaketh.  The  height  of  the 
fountain's  jet  depends  on  the  force  and 
fullness  of  the  upper  spring.  When  the 


LATER  READINGS  239 

spirit  is  alive  and  earnest  it  finds  its  true 
expression  with  ease  ;  but  one  cannot 
pump  up  enthusiasm  or  studiously  hunt 
out  its  true  and  natural  language.  That 
comes  by  instinct,  not  by  study. 

She.  I  should  like  to  see  Shakespeare's 
manuscript. 

He.  Should  you  ?     How  strange  ! 

She.  I  mean,  to  see  whether  he  cor 
rected  much. 

He.  Ben  Jonson  says  he  did  n't,  and 
he  reproves  him  for  it,  and  says  he  would 
he  had  blotted  a  thousand  lines,  and  that 
he  went  on  with  too  great  facility.  I 
can  easily  believe  Ben  blotted  a  great 
many  in  his  own  work,  but  — 

She.  Oh,  no  matter  about  Ben  Jon- 
son.  Let  him  go,  for  the  present.  Here 
is  a  blank  page,  —  no,  not  quite  blank, 
there  is  a  pressed  leaf  on  it,  and  there  is 
a  name  and  a  date.  May  I  read  the 
poem  there,  that  seems  to  refer  to  it  ? 
Is  it  very  private  ? 

He.  Read  it  if  you  wish.  I  don't  re 
member  anything  about  it. 

She.  Oh,  poets,  poets,  what  a  singular 
lot  you  are  !  Well,  I  shall  read  your 
poem,  since  you  give  me  leave,  and  I 


240        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

shall  read  it  aloud,  and  you  then  can  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  it,  if  you  have 
really  forgotten  it. 

He.  How  can  I  help  thinking  it  the 
most  beautiful  of  poems  if  you  read  it  ? 

She.  Don't  be  foolish.     Listen  ! 

A  leaf,  a  name,  a  date, 

Are  all  that  now  remain 
Of  that  glad  month,  that  golden  time, 

That  ne'er  will  come  again. 
Ah,  God  !  how  all  goes  by,  — 

Youth,  love,  joy,  —  everything 
That  once  gave  glory  to  our  life 

In  its  fresh  days  of  spring. 

A  faded  autumn  leaf  ! 

But  at  its  touch  arise 
What  odors  wafted  from  the  past 

Of  happy  memories. 
Thine  eyes  again  I  see, 

Thy  lips  again  I  press, 
Those   eyes   that    looked    such   love   to 
mine, 

Those  lips  that  breathed  to  bless. 

The  torrent's  murmuring  voice 
Goes  babbling  through  the  glen  ; 


LATER  READINGS  241 

We  lie  beside  it  on  the  grass, 

Far  from  the  eyes  of  men. 
Our  hearts  keep  fluttering  round 

One  sweet,  delicious  theme, 
And  the  happy,  childish  days  go  by, 

Like  music  in  a  dream. 

The  blue  jay  shrills  afar, 

And,  flashing  through  the  trees, 
The  oriole,  like  a  gleam  of  fire, 

Rustles  and  vanishes. 
Across  the  tender  sky 

White  cloudlets  drift  and  sail, 
And  o'er  the  glowing  woods  is  drawn 

A  soft  autumnal  veil. 

Your  voice,  your  tones  I  hear, 

The  very  words  you  said, 
And  on  my  breast  I  feel  again 

The  weight  of  your  dear  head. 
Upon  the  running  stream 

That  hurries  past,  we  throw 
The  wild  flowers  blooming  at  our  feet, 

And  idly  watch  them  go. 

Nothing  comes  back  again, 

Each  moment  hurries  on, 
Gives  us  a  kiss,  gives  us  a  stab, 

Greets  us,  and  then  is  gone. 


242        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Nothing  is  ours  to  keep, 

And  nothing  e'er  returns, 
Though  all  the   soul,  with  outstretched 
prayers, 

Again  to  grasp  it  yearns. 

Alas  !  of  all  that  then 

Was  glad,  and  pure,  as  brief, 
What  now  remains  ?     This  faded  flower, 

This  dead  autumnal  leaf  ; 
A  name,  —  thy  name,  —  a  date,  — 

The  date  of  that  dear  day,  — 
And  all  the  rest,  like  some  sweet  song, 

To  silence  passed  away. 

Ah,  no  !     It  has  not  gone, 

It  lives  within  my  heart, 
An  odor  sweet  that  haunts  my  thoughts, 

Preserved  by  love's  fond  art. 
And  oft  a  touch,  a  tone, 

A  whisper  of  the  breeze, 
A  passing  scene,  brings  back  again 

The  vanished  memories. 

Yes,  for  a  moment  brings 

The  past,  and  then  again 
In  the  dim  vast  it  vanishes, 

To  leave  a  thrill  of  pain. 


LATER  READINGS  243 

Fate,  with  relentless  whip, 

Lashes  the  present  by, 
The  future  tempts  us  but  to  cheat, 

The  past  is  one  long  sigh. 

She.  There,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ? 

He.  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  ah  me  I 

She.  Why,  there  are  tears  in  your  eyes. 
Forgive  me  ! 

He.  Oh,  I  am  a  fool,  I  know.  But 
that  day  was  one  which  I  passed  with  my 
sister  in  the  woods  at  B.,  when  we  were 
both  young,  and  both  happy,  and  both 
trusting.  She  was  half  of  my  life  to  me. 
She  entered  into  all  my  hopes,  cheered 
me  in  all  my  ambitions,  gave  me  always 
the  wisest  and  tenderest  sympathy  and 
counsel.  She  was  what  only  a  sister  can  ! 
be,  and  if  there  be  anything  good  in  me  I 
owe  it  to  her.  No  one  to  me  can  ever  fill 
the  gap  that  she  left.  But  excuse  me. 
I  did  not  mean  to  talk  about  myself,  and 
do  you  know  that  sometimes  you  your 
self  recall  the  memory  of  her  ?  Not  that 
you  look  like  her.  No  ;  but  I  never 
wrote  anything  that  I  did  not  read  to  her, 
and  she  thought  everything  I  wrote  was 
remarkable.  Dear  creature  !  She  had 


244         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

scarcely  the  heart  to  think  anything  of 
mine  bad,  or  to  depress  me  by  any  se 
vere  criticism.  And  somehow,  though 
you  are  not  in  the  least  like  her,  and  cer 
tainly  do  not  exaggerate  my  merits,  the 
mere  fact  that  I  read  to  you  these  poor 
things,  and  that  you  are  willing  to  hear 
them,  recalls  faintly  the  old  days  and 
the  old  readings.  I  don't  think  I  could 
quite  make  up  my  mind  to  read  these 
verses  to  any  man.  Men  are  so  cold, 
and  so  critical  and  unsympathetic.  Po 
etry  to  them,  for  the  most  part,  is  so  out 
side  of  their  life,  so  to  speak.  As  for 
authors,  they  are  so  fixed  in  their  own 
notions  as  to  what  any  work  should  be, 
that  they  incline  generally  rather  to  criti 
cise  than  to  sympathize,  and  to  think 
anything  could  be  done  better  in  some 
other  way.  But  women  always  listen 
with  sympathy  at  least,  and  are  more 
ready  to  exaggerate  the  merits  than  to 
weigh  the  faults  and  defects  of  what  is 
read  to  them. 

She.  It  is,  in  itself,  an  implied  compli 
ment  to  any  woman  when  an  author,  and 
particularly  a  poet,  reads  his  poems  to 
her  j  let  me  thank  you,  as  I  do  most  sin- 


LATER  READINGS  245 

cerely  and  heartily,  for  showing  this  kind 
ness  to  me. 

He.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  you  who 
have  done  me  the  kindness  to  listen  to 
them  so  sympathetically.  For,  you  know, 
it  is  a  kindness.  An  author  better  un 
derstands  his  own  work  when  he  reads 
it  aloud  to  another.  He  feels  where 
it  comes  short,  where  it  fails  in  convey 
ing  the  impression  he  desired.  He  is 
able  better  to  criticise  it  for  himself.  It 
assumes  a  comparatively  new  form  and 
character  to  him. 

She.  I  had  no  idea  that  I  was  doing 
you  a  favor.  I  thought  it  was  all  the 
other  way. 

He.  Well,  then,  we  are  both  contented, 
are  we  not  ? 

She.  I  am,  at  least  ;  and  if  you  are, 
you  will  please  prove  it  by  reading  an 
other  poem.  There  is  one,  indicating  the 
different  ways  in  which  nature  affects 
different  minds,  that  you  promised  yes 
terday  to  bring  and  to  read  to  me.  Have 
you  brought  it  ? 

He.  Yes,  I  have  ;  but  now  that  I  look 
at  it,  I  am  afraid  it  is  too  long. 

She.  Well,  I  will  be  the  judge  of  that. 
Come,  read  it,  please. 


246         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  First,  let  me  read  you  a  shorter 
one,  that  I  see  here. 

She.  Very  well,  if  you  like  ;  but  I  am 
not  going  to  let  you  off  from  the  other, 
afterwards. 

He.  This  is  a  little  poem  to  Leshia. 

She.  And  who  is  Lesbia  ? 

He.  You  will  see. 

Ah  !  lovely  Lesbia,  through  whose  eyes 

so  blue 
A  laughing  light   looks   forth,  whose 

pouting  lips 

Are  red  as  roses  moist  with  morning  dew, 
What    shall    preserve    these     charms 
from  Time's  eclipse  ? 

Must  coming  years  intrench  that  perfect 

brow 
With    cruel     lines,     these     blooming 

cheeks  invade, 
Where  quick  the  warm  blush  mounts  and 

mantles  now, 

And  o'er  thy  glowing  beauty    cast  a 
shade  ? 

Can  nothing  save  thee  from  the  spoil  of 

time? 
Nothing  avert  the  silent  siege  of  fate  ? 


LATER  READINGS  247 

Nothing   preserve   thee   in    thy   perfect 

prime 

As  now  thou  art,  and  keep  and  conse 
crate  ? 

Nothing  but  Art  —  and  Art,  how  vain  it  is 
For  all  its  vaunt  —  that  can  preserve 

alone 

Youth's  shadowy  semblance  ere   it  van 
ishes 

When  youth  itself  and  all  its  charms 
are  flown. 

Surer  is  death  !    If  in  thy  beauty  rare, 
Thy  radiant  youth,  stern  death  should 

summon  thee, 
Thou  wouldst  remain  forever  young  and 

fair, 

Unharmed  by  time,  embalmed  in  mem 
ory. 

Ah,  then,  no  change,  —  no  faltering  steps 

like  ours 
Adown   the    steeps  of  life,  —  Death's 

silent  bride 
Thou  shouldst  be  crowned  with  youth's 

perpetual  flowers, 
And   sorrow  from   thy   pathway   step 


248        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Still,   lovely   Lesbia,   smile,  while  smile 

you  may  ; 
Accept    life's    bounteous    gifts    while 

youth  divine 

Scatters  its  roses  on  your  laughing  way, 
And  take  as   tribute  one  poor  poet's 
line. 

You  '11  read  it  now  with  half  a  smile  and 

sneer, 
And   lightly   laugh,   and    shake    your 

graceful  head  ; 
Well  !  —  wait  !  and  read  it  after  many  a 

year, 

When  you  and  I  are   old  —  or  I   am 
dead. 

Perchance  it  may  recall  a  distant  day, 

A  happy  hour  denied  to  after  years  ; 
Perchance,  —  and  then,  —  but  wipe  them 

quick  away 

If  in  your  eyes  should  brim  unbidden 
tears. 

What  is  the  use  of  sorrow  or  regret  ? 
Will  they  avail   to   give   us  back  the 
past? 


LATER  READINGS  249 

Onward  the  tides  of  time  unebbing  set, 
Till  on  the  shores  of  death  our  wrecks 
are  cast. 

Then  let  us  live  and  love  while  yet  we 

may, 
Nor  cloud  the  present  with  the  future's 

dread, 
But  grateful  take  the  gift  for  which  we 

pray, 

Content  to  have  each   day   our   daily 
bread. 

She.  Give  this  poem  to  me,  and  I  will 
keep  it  and  read  it  when  I  am  old  and 
gray,  and  wear  a  cap,  and  totter  about  on 
pleasant  summer  mornings  in  the  flower 
garden  ;  and  smile  and  sigh  over  the 
past,  and  chatter  over  the  old  times  when 
I  was  young  ;  and  fall  asleep  now  and 
then  in  my  easy  chair  in  the  long  winter 
evenings,  as  I  sit  over  the  fire  watching 
idly  the  flames  that  shoot  up  and  die 
away  ;  and  dreaming,  and  moralizing, 
and  comparing  the  meanness  of  to-day 
with  the  nobler  spirit  of  the  past.  And 
in  some  such  mood  I  shall  say  to  my 
maid  Annie,  "  Bring  me  that  little  book 


250        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

bound  in  vellum  and  gold,  with  a  gold 
clasp,  that  is  in  my  chamber  ; "  for  in  that, 
among  other  precious  relics  and  memen 
tos  of  the  past,  I  shall  put  this  poem 
carefully  away.  And  she  will  bring  it, 
and  with  a  little  suffusion  in  the  eyes, 
that  obliges  me  to  take  off  my  spectacles 
and  wipe  them  dry,  I  shall  read  this 
poem,  and,  dropping  the  book  in  my  lap, 
say  :  "  Ah,  me  !  those  were  happy  days. 
Those  were  happy  mornings  under  the 
trees,"  and  wonder  if  any  one  now  is 
listening,  as  I  did  then,  to  poems  read  by 
a  young  poet  while  the  nightingales  and 
the  purling  brook  are  singing  an  accom 
paniment  to  him  as  he  reads. 

He.  Yes  ;  and  perhaps  you  will  read 
them  when  life  has  not  gone  on  so  far, 
though  youth  has  fled,  and  you  have  be 
come  sterner  and  more  critical,  and  the 
romance  of  life  is  over.  And  then  you 
will  say  :  "  Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  what  a 
romantic  young  thing  I  was  !  It  was 
only  youth  that  made  these  poems  seem 
worth  the  listening  to.  I  should  not  be 
able  to  stand  them  now,  even  with  the 
best  of  will."  That  is  far  more  probable. 

She.  Well,  we  will  wait  and  see. 


LATER  READINGS  251 

He.  I  shall  have  taken  the  long  jour 
ney  before  that  time,  so  that  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  see  ;  and  besides,  even  if  I 
were  there,  you  would  not  acknowledge 
the  truth.  You  would  be  too  kind  an  old 
lady,  as  you  are  too  generous  a  young 
one.  You  would  have  something  pleasant 
to  say,  even  if  it  went  a  little  against 
your  conscience. 

She.  Yes,  I  hope  I  should.  Truth 
with  a  capital  T  is  a  hard,  unsympathetic 
kind  of  creature,  who  is  always  reprov 
ing  and  rebuking  and  setting  us  right, 
and  is  so  formal  and  noble  and  stately 
in  her  high  ruff.  I  think  I  probably 
should  dodge  her,  as  you  say,  if  I  could, 
or  get  her  out  of  the  room.  But  time  is 
going,  so  a  truce  to  all  this  forecasting. 
I  'm  waiting  for  the  poem. 

He.  One  moment,  just  as  a  comment 
on  what  we  were  saying,  a  sort  of  pre 
liminary  overture  on  an  old  violoncello 
before  the  play  begins :  — 

Nought  is  given  to  keep  and  to  own  : 
Life  and  time,  love  and  youth  hurry 

by; 

Ere  we  say  they  are  ours  they  are  flown  ; 
And  memory  is  but  a  sigh,  — 


252         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

A  sigh  for  a  phantom  that  's  fled, 

For  a  dream  that  we  clung  to  and  lost, 

But  a  funeral  rite  for  the  dead 

Of    which  nothing    remains   but    the 
ghost. 

Our  sorrows  as  well  as  our  joys 

Grow  dimmer  as  time  fleets  away, 
And  over  old  pains,  cares,  annoys, 

Faint  graces  of  memory  play. 
What  we  mourned  for  with  bitterest  tears, 

What   with   anguish    we   wept    for   a 

while, 
Time  softens,  till  after  long  years 

Almost  on  its  face  is  a  smile. 

She.  Thank  you  ;  it  is  very  pretty,  but 
very  sad. 

He.  Oh,  don't  call  it  pretty.  If  there 
is  anything  I  hate,  it  is  that  word 
"pretty."  It  is  such  a  condescending 
and  unmeaning  word.  It  is  like  flinging 
a  stone  at  a  poem  to  call  it  pretty. 

She.  I  take  it  back  !     I  never  said  so  ! 

He.  Thank  you,  that  will  do. 

She.  There  were  two  poems  I  saw 
when  you  gave  me  your  book  to  look 
at,  that  were  both  entitled  "  Good-by." 
What  are  they  ? 


LATER  READINGS  253 

He.  Little  nothings.  Not  worth  read 
ing. 

She.  Let  me  judge  of  that,  please. 
What  are  they  ? 

He.  Oh,  I  have  no  objection  to  read 
ing  them  if  you  wish,  but  I  assure  you  — 

She.  Oh  !  Don't  assure  me  ;  read 
them. 

He.  To  hear  is  to  obey.  This  is  one  of 
them. 

Well,  well  !     This  is  the  very  last,  last 
day 

We  shall  be  here  ; 
And  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  get  away. 

Shall  you  not,  dear  ? 

Yes  —  no  —  perhaps  !    't  is   always   hard 
to  say 

That  word  —  Good-by. 
No  place  is  wholly  sad,  or  wholly  gay. 
With  half  a  sigh 

We  leave  the  dreariest  place.     However 
gray, 

Dark,  tempest-tossed, 
Some   gleams  of   softening  light  illume 
alway 

The  past  and  lost. 


254        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

And    the    mere   words,  —  smile,   speak 
them  as  we  may,  — 

"  This  is  the  last," 
Across  the  darkest  and  the  brightest  day 

A  cloud  will  cast. 

A  consecrating  hand  time  seems  to  lay 

On  all  it  gave. 

Griefs  fade,  and  tender  lights  of  memory 
play 

Even  o'er  the  grave. 

She.  Yes  ;  there  is  some  truth  in  that. 
Even  over  the  dreariest  and  most  com 
monplace  of  days  and  experiences  that 
are  gone  there  lingers  a  certain  light,  — 
perhaps  of  amusement,  if  of  nothing  else, 
that  softens  in  memory  all  the  harshness 
of  fact  and  reality.  We  at  least  can 
laugh  at  what  is  past,  however  annoying 
and  disagreeable  it  might  have  been  at 
the  time.  But  now  for  the  other  poem, 
which  I  suppose  is  on  the  same  lines, 
with  a  little  variation,  perhaps. 

He.  Not  precisely.  It  is  a  different 
kind  of  Good-by. 

She.  Well,  read  it,  please. 

He.   To  hear  is  to  obey. 


LATER  READINGS  255 

This  is  the  last  time  we  shall  walk  to 
gether  ; 
So  it  all  ends  ! 
Still,  if  love  binds  us  not  with  its  strong 

tether, 
We  may  at  least  be  friends. 

Ah !    so  you  say !   but  after  the  sweet 

hoping 

Of  what  might  be, 
Friendship   sounds   cold,  —  so  cold  !    In 

heaven's  wide  coping 
Love's  light  is  gone  for  me. 

Its  glory   gone,   that  once   with  radiant 

splendor 

Before  me  shone  ; 
With     only     twilight     friendship,     sad, 

though  tender, 
To  light  life's  journey  on. 

No  !  I  will  say  no  more.     'T  is  all  past 

saying. 

Here  it  all  ends  ! 
You  know  too  well  what  on  my  heart  is 

weighing, 
So  let  us  part,  —  mere  friends. 


256         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Yes,  it  is  difficult  to  put  up  with 
second  best  in  all  cases,  but  specially  in 
love,  where  not  to  be  first  is  to  be  nowhere. 
So  I  imagine,  at  least  ;  I  never  tried  it. 
Undoubtedly  you  have,  as  you  speak  so 
feelingly  about  it. 

He.  If  you  suppose  all  these  verses  of 
mine  are  founded  upon  personal  experi 
ences,  permit  me  to  say  that  you  are  mis 
taken.  But  one  may  fall  in  love  with 
imaginary  as  well  as  real  persons,  and 
the  loss  is  about  the  same. 

She.  Are  not  many  real  persons  purely 
imaginary  ?  In  fact,  are  not  all  to  a  cer 
tain  extent  in  this  category,  —  particu 
larly  when  one  is  what  we  call  in  love  ? 
What  do  we  really  know  of  anybody 
else  ;  nay,  I  might  ask,  even  of  our 
selves  ?  Of  those  who  are  nearest  and 
dearest  how  little  we  know  !  Each  is 
alone  in  his  or  her  intimate  individuality. 
However  closely  we  may  seem  to  be 
united,  even  in  our  affections  and  in  our 
sympathies  and  feelings,  still  there  is  an 
impassable  gulf  between  us.  We  talk 
of  being  one,  but  we  are  always  two. 

He.  That  is  what  I  have  tried  to  say, 
but,  I  confess,  not  very  successfully,  in 
these  lines  :  — 


LATER  READINGS  257 

Close  at  your  side, 
And  yet  as   distant,  dearest,  each  from 

each 

As  if  some  ocean,  desolate  and  wide, 
Parted  our  souls  ;  o'er  which  no  subtlest 

speech, 
No  tenderest  tone,  look,  thought,  of  love 

can  reach, 
And  that  abyss  between  us  overstride. 

So  near,  so  dear, 

And  yet  so  far  apart !     Each  so  alone 
In  its  deep   inner  life,  thought,  hope, 

pain,  fear, 

Each  to  the  other  soul  so  dimly  known. 
Each,  starlike,  bounded  by  a  silent  zone, 
And  powerless  to  o'erstep  its  own  fixed 
sphere. 

Ah,  to  be  one, 

Both  merged  in  one,  not  ever,  ever  two  ! 
One     only  ;     not     in     earthly     sense 

alone, 
But  soul  to  soul  incorporate  through  and 

through  ; 
One  throbbing  pulse  of  life  in   me  and 

you, 

One  pulse  of  death,  when  this  brief  life 
is  done. 


258         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

She.  Well,  I  don't  think  I  could  go  so 
far  as  that  last  verse  would  go,  for  it 
would  be  only  losing  one's  self,  after  all, 
and  the  bliss  of  loving,  I  should  think, 
would  be  the  reciprocation  of  the  two,  — 
of  the  I  and  thou  and  the  thou  and  I,  — 
and  not  the  loss  of  all  individuality. 
While  there  are  two  there  is  the  charm 
of  accord,  the  two  tones  blending  into 
harmonies  of  hope,  love,  joy,  and  fear  ; 
otherwise  there  would  be  no  chance  of 
concord. 

He.  And  none  of  discord,  and  that  is 
something  you  will  admit,  though  of  very 
rare  occurrence,  —  between  husband  and 
wife,  at  least,  if  not  between  lovers. 

She.  Well,  I  suppose  you  know.  I 
give  it  up.  I  am  so  very  ignorant  of  all 
such  matters.  Still,  I  prefer  to  be  my 
self,  and  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  an 
unsatisfactory  mixture  I  should  make  if 
I  were  identified  with  any  other  being. 
Ah,  no  !  no  unison  for  me  !  Concord  and 
harmony  of  different  tones  is  far  better, 
and  for  myself,  I  'd  rather  be  a  single 
note.  But  you  see  I  am  not  a  poet,  and 
not  wildly  in  love. 

He.  I  dare  say  it  is  all  very  extrava- 


LATER  READINGS  259 

gant,  but  persons  are  so  very,  very  ex 
travagant  when  they  are  in  love  !  You 
must  not  take  what  they  say  to  the  let 
ter.  They  are  always  dying  for  this  and 
for  that  impossible  thing.  They  never 
saw  or  felt  anything  half  so  perfect  and 
so  divine  as  everything  is.  When  it 
comes  to  analyzing  their  extravagant 
expressions,  and  submitting  them  to  the 
touchstone  of  reality,  they  cannot  stand 
the  test  ;  but  to  them  there  never  was 
so  perfect  a  moonlight  night,  nor  so 
glorious  a  summer  day,  as  every  day  and 
every  night  is,  or  so  they  say.  They  live 
in  a  dream,  and  a  dream  is  generally 
very  far  removed  from  all  the  realities  of 
life.  In  a  dream  we  say  and  we  do  the 
most  wonderful  things,  all  of  which  seem 
to  us  natural,  but  which  are  in  fact  mere 
inconsecutive  nonsense,  for  the  most  part 
at  least.  But  dreams  are  dreams,  for  all 
that. 

She.  Sometimes  I  think  that  the  world 
is  only  a  dream,  and  we  wake  up  when 
we  die,  as  we  do  from  our  other  dreams 
here.  However,  don't  let  us  go  into  that 
question.  Let  us  draw  back  our  feet  at 
once  from  it.  And  to  change  the  sub- 


260        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

ject,  let  me  ask  you  if  you  have  ever 
painted  this  delightful  spot.  If  you 
have  not,  you  ought  to.  You  might  put 
your  two  lovers  here. 

He.  Will  you  give  me  a  sitting  for  one 
of  them  ? 

She.  I  ?  I  think  so  !  How  absurd  ! 
But,  jesting  apart,  have  you  ever  painted 
this  spot,  with  its  mossy  rocks  and  boul 
ders,  through  which  the  clear  running 
stream  finds  its  murmurous  way,  spread 
ing  out  into  clear  brown  pools  of  trans 
parent  water  now  and  then,  in  which  the 
overhanging  trees  and  the  blue  sky  be 
yond  are  so  softly  mirrored  ?  I  should 
think  you  might  make  a  charming  pic 
ture  of  it.  You  have  painted  it,  have  n't 
you  ? 

He.  Yes  and  no.  I  have  tried,  but  I 
have  not  succeeded.  How  could  I  suc 
ceed  in  rendering  beyond  the  facts  the 
somewhat  that  haunts  it  like  a  spirit  ? 
Even  the  best  representation  of  it  on  can 
vas  must  necessarily  lack  so  much  that 
the  eye  cannot  see,  but  that  reaches  all 
the  other  senses,  —  the  odors,  the  sounds, 
the  whispering  of  the  lightly  lifting 
breeze  among  the  trees,  the  murmur  of 


LATER  READINGS  261 

the  brook,  the  singing  of  the  birds;  these 
make  up  an  essential  part  of  the  whole, 
and  how  can  the  deftest  brush  express 
them  ?  The  soul  feels  more  than  the 
eye  sees.  And  besides,  see  how  the 
whole  place  has  changed  in  the  hour 
that  we  have  been  here.  It  is  still  the 
same  in  a  certain  sense,  and  yet  certainly 
different,  in  all  the  elements  of  light  and 
shade  and  color  and  sentiment,  with  in 
finite  and  ever  shifting  details,  at  every 
moment  having  a  different  character,  and 
representing  a  different  mood  and  feel 
ing. 

She.  I  hear  a  great  deal  lately  about 
the  necessity  of  absolutely  following  na 
ture  in  art  ;  but  what  is  nature  ?  Is  not 
the  ugly  as  natural  as  the  beautiful  ? 

He.  Ay,  that  is  the  great  question,  — 
What  is  nature  ?  and  what  are  we  to  im 
itate  ?  Nature  is  as  much  a  sentiment 
and  a  feeling  as  a  congregation  of  facts. 
In  the  latter  sense  it  has  the  same  relation 
to  art  that  a  dictionary  and  a  grammar 
have  to  poetry,  or  sounds  to  music.  The 
great  object  for  the  artist  is,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  to  select  and  subordinate  the  out 
ward  world  that  he  sees  to  some  idea,  or 


262        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

sentiment,  or  feeling,  not  servilely  to 
copy  it.  No  literal  reproduction  of  life 
or  nature,  however  accurate,  results  in 
art.  The  spirit,  the  mind,  the  soul,  must 
come  in  to  give  them  life  and  truth.  We 
must,  of  course,  be  grammatical  ;  but 
after  all,  grammar  is  not  poetry,  however 
correctly  the  words  are  arranged.  There 
is  something  infinitely  beyond  all  this. 
And,  by  the  way,  here  are  two  poems 
which  touch  upon  this  question. 

She.  Read  them. 

He. 
Paint  me  the  murmur  of  the  brook, 

That  through  the  forest  flows, 
The  sealike  whisperings  of  the  pines, 

The  perfume  of  the  rose, 
The  tender  tone,  the  finished  song, 

That  held  our  hearts  awhile, 
And  then  —  but  not  till  then  —  perhaps 

You  '11  paint  me  Livia's  smile. 

Ah,  no  !  The  auroral  gleam  that  plays 

Across  her  happy  face, 
The  beaming  eye,  the  quivering  lips, 

The  lights  that  o'er  it  race, 
The  joy,  the  innocent  surprise 

That  springs  from  out  the  heart 


f  UNIVERS 


LATER  READINGS  263 

And  flushes  o'er  her  radiant  face, 
Defy  the  snare  of  Art. 

No  !  Nature  mocks  the  artist's  skill ; 

Her  breathing  life  and  charm 
Flee  from  his  grasp,  and  only  leave 

Her  cold  and  lifeless  form. 
Shy  Beauty's  ever  varying  shapes 

Art  vainly  strives  to  seize. 
She  lures  us  on,  but  at  our  touch 

She  smiles  and  vanishes. 

She  vanishes,  but  leaves  behind 

A  promise  in  the  air, 
A  sweet  excitement,  a  fond  hope, 

That  charms  away  despair. 
She  lures  the  artist  in  his  dreams, 

She  will  not  set  him  free, 
And  in  her  bondage  sweet  he  owns 

Life's  best  felicity. 

She.  Yes;  't  is  only  one  thing  that  can 
be  taken  at  one  time  in  art.  But  life 
and  nature  and  beauty  have  infinite  vari 
ations  and  allurements,  following  each 
other  swiftly  as  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and 
never  the  same  for  more  than  a  moment. 
Which  to  take,  that  must  be  the  question, 
since  to  take  all  is  impossible. 


264         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  Ah,  yes  ;  that  is  the  question. 

She.  Now  for  the  other  poem. 

He.  Well,  this  I  call  "Many  Men, 
Many  Minds."  Nature  is  what  we  are  ; 
we  only  see  ourselves  reflected  in  it.  No. 
First  I  will  read  you  a  few  lines  express 
ing  this  thought  on  the  part  of  the  artist : 

I  have  done  my  best  ;  but  nothing  seems 

worth  the  doing, 
Once  it  is  done  ; 
And   success    is    a    phantom    that   ever 

eludes  our  pursuing 
And  tempts  us  forever  on. 

The  joy  is  alone  in  the  earnest  seeking 

and  striving 
For  what  before  us  lies. 
"Tis  only  illusions  that  make  life  seem 

worth  living, 
Not  life's  realities. 

'Tis  the  spirit  that   lends  its  charm  to 

living  and  being, 
What  we  give  alone  we  find, 
'T  is  what  we  are  that  lends  to  the  eye  its 

seeing, 
The  eye  of  itself  is  blind. 


LATER  READINGS  265 

She.  True,  true,  very  true.  Now  for 
that  other  poem. 

He.  Well,  you  shall  have  it,  if  you  in 
sist.  But  I  am  afraid  it  is  rather  long 
for  to-day. 

She.  No  matter,  read  it. 

He.  Well,  it  must  be  the  last  for  to 
day,  the  very  last.  I  scarcely  have  it  in 
my  heart,  really  and  honestly,  to  read  it 
to  you.  But  none  the  less,  here  it  is.  If 
you  will  have  it,  you  will !  It  is  called, 
as  I  told  you,  — 

MANY  MEN -MANY  MINDS. 

A   glorious   day  !    June   at  its   best  ;   a 

smile 
On  all   creation,  —  the  pure   heavens  so 

blue, 
So  calm  above  ;  the  fresh-washed  leaves 

and  grass 
Twinkling   in   light  ;    the   delicate,   soft 

breeze, 

Lifting  at  intervals,  and  crisping  o'er 
The  gleaming  river,  as  it  loitering  glides 
Through  whitening  willows,  —  all  things 

at  their  best. 


266         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

A  day  to  wander  without  aim,  and  take 
What,  unasked,.  Nature  yields  to  happy 
chance. 

So  thought  the  poet  whom  I  chanced  to 
meet 

Under  the  canopy  of  murmurous  leaves. 

Stretched  on  the  grass,  beneath  their 
shade,  he  lay, 

Dreaming,  and  idly  gazing  now  above. 

Now  down  into  the  soft  reflected  world 

That  in  the  watery  mirror  quivering 
hung. 

"What  are  you  pondering  now,  my 
dreaming  friend," 

I  asked  as  I  approached.  With  a  half- 
smile, 

Turning  to  me,  he  answered  :  "Ponder 
ing? 

Nothing.  Yes,  absolutely  nothing.  'T  is 
enough 

On  such  a  day  to  feel  and  not  to  think.  — 

To  feel,  to  dream,  surrendered  to  the 
spell 

Of  all  this  infinite  beauty,  and  to  live, 

Unquestioning,  as  live  the  trees  and  flow 
ers, 


LATER  READINGS  267 

Absorbed   in   nature,   glad   for    what   it 

gives. 
Not    toiling,    spinning    out    a    web    of 

thought, 

But,  with  the  mind  asleep,  into  the  soul 
Taking  those  dim  reflections  from  above 
That  only  come  when,  tranced  in  peace, 

we  lie 
Unconscious,   and   let   Nature   have  her 

will. 
From  thoughtless  hours  thus  spent  our 

very  thoughts 

Returning  have  a  radiance,  color,  light, 
Transfiguring  life  itself  to  poesy. 
So,  in   such  hours,  I   no   vain  questions 

ask, 

Nor  trouble  the  deep  flow  of  time  where 
in 

My  spirit  swims,  —  not  rooted  like  a  rock, 
To  make  a  trouble  there;  but,  drifting  on, 
Whither,  who  knows  ?  nor  ask  me  to 

what  end. 

Suffices  me  to  be  at  one  with  all, 
Though  some  may  call  it  utter  idleness." 

That    is   one    way    to    look    at   life,    I 

thought, 
A  poet's  way,  and  then  I  wandered  on. 


268        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Along  the  meadows,  pondering  his  words, 

I  passed  a  peasant.  Through  the  fields 
he  ploughed 

With  slow,  dull  steps,  goading  his  labor 
ing  steers, 

And  shouting  to  them  as  he  urged  them 
on. 

At  times  he  paused  to  wipe  from  off  his 
brow 

The  beaded  sweat  ;  then  to  his  work 
again 

Sternly  he  bent  himself.  Approaching 
him, 

"A  lovely  day,"  I  said.  "Ay,  if  it 
holds," 

He  answered,  looking  up,  and  questioning 

The  open  sky.  "  'T  will  bring  good 
crops  to  serve 

Our  master's  needs,  at  least ;  and  as  for 
us 

Who  do  the  laborer's  work,  what  mat 
ters  it 

Sun,  rain,  wet,  dry  ;  't  is  all  alike  to  us  ; 

Our  wages  are  the  same  ;  that  's  the 
chief  thing. 

And  for  the  rest,  if  this  good  weather 
holds, 

It  promises,  at  least,  that  we  shall  have 


LATER  READINGS  269 

A  bounteous  harvest.     But  why  hope  for 

that? 

Was  any  season  the  world  ever  saw 
Good  for  the  farmer  ?     There  's  a  curse 

on  it  ; 

That 's  what  I  say  ;  that 's  my  experience. 
Pray  as  we  will,  sir,  Nature  always  spites 
Our  wishes  and  our  hopes.  But  I  must 

work, 
I  have  no  time  to  talk,  —  your  servant, 

sir  !  " 

Still  further  on  I  met  a  merchant  friend, 
Fresh  from  the  city,  overworn  with  care, 
Pale,  anxious,  looking  down  upon  the 

ground, 

And  heedless  of  the  canticles  the  birds 
Were  singing  in   the  branches,  and  the 

lark's 
Long  trill  of   song  streaming  along  the 

sky. 
Nothing  to  him  had  summer's  bounteous 

gifts 

Nor  all  its  light  and  joy  and  life  to  say. 
"  Ah  ! "  he  exclaimed,  as   I   drew   near, 

"  What  news  ? 
My  papers  have  not  come  to-day.     Have 

yours  ? 


270        A  POUT'S  PORTFOLIO 

Yes  ?     What  are  the  quotations  ?     How 

are  stocks  ? 

Ah  !  You  cau't  tell  me.  I  was  pondering, 
As  you  came  up,  whether  to  buy  at  once 
In  the  South  westerns,  or  to  wait  a 

while. 
They   're  going  up,  I  think.     What  do 

you  say  ? 
You  shake  your  head.    They  interest  you 

not. 
Ah,  well,  you  see,  I  have  to  think  of 

them. 

Poor  Jones,  he 's  gone  at  last ;  a  fortu 
nate  man, 
Rich,  very  rich.     You  knew  him,  did  you 

not? 
Have  you  heard  what  he  left  ?  " 

"  Yes  !     Everything  !  — 
Of  all  he  spent  his  worried  life  to  gain, 
Nothing  he  took  with  him  to  where  he  's 

gone  ; 
Not  even  an  obolus  for  Charon's  toll." 

"  God    bless     me,"     cried    my     friend ; 

"  that 's  an  odd  view. 
Well,    well !    This    world    is    made   of 

many  minds." 


LATER   READINGS  271 

I  pondered,  as  I  left  him,  both  his  hands 
Plunged  in  his  pockets,  jingling  there  his 

coins, 
Glad  to  be  rid  of  him. 

Still  further  on, 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  noble  oak, 

I  met  an  artist.     At  his  side  I  paused, 

And  craved  his  leave  to  overlook  his 
work. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  what  I  do,"  he  said  ; 

"This  beauty  baffles  me.  These  dis 
tances, 

These  wondrous  tints  and  hazes  and  half- 
forms, 

This  unity  as  of  one  single  chord 

Through  all  the  myriad  shapes  and 
sounds  and  hues, 

This  strength,  and  this  refinement,  mock 
our  powers. 

Strive  as  we  will,  't  is  vain.  The  lark's 
far  song 

Gives  color  to  the  sky.  And  how  paint 
that? 

These  passionate  lifts  and  breathings  of 
the  air, 

These  murmurous  whispering  voices  in 
the  leaves, 


272         A  POUT'S  PORTFOLIO 

These  quivering  shadows,  this  faint,  dim 

perfume 
That  haunts   the    air,   this  brook's   low, 

purling  voice 
Talking  along  the  pebbles,  —  how  paint 

these  ? 
Yet  they   are   part   and  essence   of   the 

scene. 
Ah,  that,  you  see,   no  human   hand  can 

do. 

The  crude  material  facts  alone  we  seize. 
The   unseen   presence   that   pervades   it 

all, 
The  soul  that  through  all  nature  beats 

and  thrills 
And  dimly  calls  us,  —  that,  ah,  that  we 

lose, 
For  even  our   best  of  paintings  all  are 

dumb. 

"Say   Spring,    for   instance.     Spring, — 

that  little  word 
Means  more,  far  more,  than  any  brush 

can  paint. 
The  poets  have  their  will  with  words,  but 

we 
Are  chained  to  facts,  and  the  fine   soul 


LATER  READINGS  273 

And  who  can  catch  and  keep  it  ?  though, 

indeed, 
Some  happy  spirits  do,  I  know  not  how. 

"  Still,  to  pursue  our  Art,  faltering  to  chase 

The  ideal  phantom  that  forever  flies, 

Is  joy  enough.  What  matters  what  we 
achieve, 

The  joy  is  in  the  chase.  Though  Nature 
taunts, 

She  smiles  on  us  at  times,  because  we 
love, 

Along  our  pathway  scatters  myriad  flow 
ers, 

And  sings  to  us  a  sweet  perpetual  song." 

Saying  "Farewell,"  I  in  the  distance  saw 
Nelly  and  Bob  playing  beside  the  banks 
Of  the  smooth  river,  —  running  to  and 

fro, 
Laughing  and  chattering  in  their  childish 

glee, 
And  busy  at   their  work,  which  was  all 

play. 
"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  I  cried  to 

them. 
"  Sailing  our  ships,"  they  cried.     "  Look 

there  !  that 's  Bob's, 


274        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

And  that  is  mine  ahead.     You  take  one, 

too! 
Here  —  this  is  yours  !  "     And  so  I  took  a 

chip, 

And  we  all  sailed  together,  and  our  chips 
Were  argosies  of  price  that  sailed  and 

sailed 

To  Indromina,  up  the  wondrous  shores 
Of  Andrapandra,  till  we  reached  at  last 
A  strange,  mysterious  land  of  spice  and 

flowers, 
And    giant    palms,    and   trees    weighed 

down  with  fruit 
Delicious    beyond     telling ;     where    we 

spread 
Our  table   in    the    shade   of    perfumed 

groves, 
And  ate  and  drank  sweet  and  fictitious 

food. 

And  by  and  by  dark  tribes  of  kindly  men 
And  long-haired  women,  beautiful  to  see, 
Came  gathering  round  us,  bearing  in  their 

hands 
Pearls,  rubies,  diamonds,  emeralds  ;  and 

they  talked 
An  Eastern   tongue   that   no   man   ever 

heard, 

And  sang  and  played  on  wondrous  instru 
ments. 


LATER  READINGS  275 

"  And  you,"  they  cried  to  Bob,  "  shall  be 

our  king, 
And  you  be  queen "  (to  Nelly)  ;  and  to 

me, 
"  You  shall  be  grand  Panjandrum  of  us 

all ! " 
And  then  the  air  was  rent  with  clash  and 

clang 
Of  golden  trumpets,  cymbals,  bells,  and 

gongs, 
And  shouts  of  "Glory  to  our  king  and 

queen  !•" 

Alas  !  't  was  but  the  luncheon  gong  that 

rang, 
And  all  our  wondrous  world  vanished  to 

air. 

Such  voyages  we  made  with  those  small 
chips 

To  unknown  realms  far  up  the  land  of 
dreams  ; 

Such  precious  stones  we  found,  beyond 
all  price, 

Lying  around  us  at  our  very  feet, 

That  unto  purblind  eyes  seemed  pebbles 
vile, 

While  through  the  magic  world  of  make- 
believe, 


276        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

Made  real  with  imaginative  life, 
I    roamed    an    hour,  —  almost    a    child 
again. 

Poet  and  artist  he  alone  can  be,  — 

So  dreamed  I  as  I  wandered  on  alone,  — 

Who,  in  the  fullness  of  his  powers,  can 

keep 
The  spell   that  Nature  to  the  child  has 

given, 

And  through  imagination  can  transmute 
The   actual   world   around   of   common 
place 

To  an  ideal  world  in  simple  play. 
For  what  is  real  in  this  world  of  ours 
Save  what  the  inward  spirit  lends  to  it  ? 
All  things  around  us  are  but  what  they 

seem, 

And  take  their  life  and  color  from  our 
selves. 

While  work  is  only  toil,  it  has  the  curse 
Of  Adam  on  it,  and  the  ideal  gates 
That    ope    to    Paradise    are    shut    and 

barred. 
When  joy  and  love  go  with   it,  with   a 

smile 
The  angel  waves  aside  his  flaming  sword, 


LATER  READINGS  277 

Flings  the  gates  wide,  and  cries,  "  Come 

in  !  Come  in  ! 
For  you  have  learned  the  secret  of  the 

child." 

And  here  ended  the  second  day's  read 
ing  in  that  delightful  glen.  But  he  gave 
her  another  poem  to  read  by  herself, 
for  it  was  too  long  to  read  aloud.  What 
she  thought  of  it  I  do  not  know,  and 
therefore  I  cannot  truly  say.  Not  that 
I  would  presume,  in  the  face  of  so 
many  instances  to  the  contrary,  to  insist 
that  it  is  necessary  to  know  before  you 
say  —  anything. 

However,  whatever  the  poem  was,  you 
can  judge  for  yourself,  for  here  it  is  :  — 

A  PASSING  CLOUD. 

He.  What  is  it,  dear  ? 
She.  We  are  alone,  at  last ! 

Why  did  they  stay  so  long  ?     I  am  so 

tired 
I  know  not  what  I  've  said  this  last  half 

hour. 

He.  Yes  ;   and  I   too  am  glad  to   be 
alone. 


278        'A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

I  've  had  enough,  —  more  than  enough, 

in  fact. 
She.  What  were  you   saying  all  that 

long,  long  time 

You  sat  in  the  far  corner  with  Adele, 
Hidden  behind  the  oleanders  there, 
Beyond   the  reach   of   ears,  —  almost  of 

eyes  ? 

He.  But  not  of  yours,  at  least. 

She.  No  !  not  of  mine, 

For  I  was  curious,  very.     What  on  earth 

Could  you  be  saying  to  her  all  that  time  ? 

He.   Saying  ?     Mere  nothings.     I  can 

scarce  recall 
What  we  were  saying.     Compliments,  of 

course  ; 
One  has  to  give  them  to  your  sex,  you 

know, 
When  they  are  pretty,  —  or  they  think 

they  are. 
They  all  are  fond  of  bonbons. 

She.  By  her  face 

I  saw  you  lavished  compliments  enough, 
And  more   than   that,  or   so  at  least  it 

looked. 

He.  What  do  you  mean  ? 
She.  You  know  as  well  as  I. 

He.  I?     I  know  nothing.  What  I  said 
to  her 


LATER  READINGS  279 

I  scarce  remember,  —  what   one  says  to 

all. 
She.  Oh,  no  !     Your  memory  's  not  so 

short  as  that. 
Think  !     Think  !      She  blushed  at  first, 

and  looked  so  pleased  ; 
And  then  the  talk  of  both  grew  serious 
And  more  than  serious.     Tell   me  what 

she  said. 
He.  Oh,     at     the    last,     you     mean. 

Guess !  , 

She.  Guess,  indeed ! 

How  can  I  guess  ? 

He.  Suppose  it  was  of  you  ? 

She.  Oh,  Alfred!     What  a  — 
He.  On  my  faith  it  was. 

At  first  I  praised  her   dress  ;   then  she 

praised  yours, 
And  said  how  well  you  looked,  how  good 

you  were, 
And  how  she  loved  you.     Then  a  story 

long 
About  old  times  she  told,  when  you  were 

girls, 
Years,  years  ago. 

She.  And  was  that  really  all  ? 

He.  Yes  ;  really  all. 

She.     And  you  ?     What  did  you  say  ? 


280         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  I  ?  Say  ?     If  I  remember  right,  I 

said 
Yes  !     Certainly  !    Of  course  !   Just  like 

her  !     Yes  ! 
She  always  was  so  !      Charming,  wasn't 

it? 

And  many  another  phrase  as  eloquent. 
She.  Ah  !  now  you  're  laughing  at  me. 
He.  On  my  word 

I'm  telling  you   the   plain,  unvarnished 

truth. 
What  could  I  say  but  give   rny  heart's 

consent 
To  all  the  charming  things  she  said  of 

you? 

I  might  have  been  a  little  shy,  perhaps, 
For   praises  of   one's  wife  are  half  the 

same 
As  praises  of  one's  self,  since  both  are 

one; 
Or  ought  to  be,  at  least  — 

She.  Yes,  ought  to  be  ! 

But  are  they  ? 

He.  Very  rarely,  I  confess. 

She.  We   are  exceptions,   then,  if   we 

are  one. 
I  hope  we  are  exceptions. 

He.  And  I  know 

We  are  so,  dearest  — 


LATER  READINGS  281 

She.  Dearest !     Ah,  you  say 

Dearest,  and   what  a   world   that   word 

contains  ! 

But  am  I  really  dearest  ?     Tell  me  now, 
Frankly,   without    concealment    or    dis 
guise, 

If  still  you  love  me  as  you  loved  me  once. 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  bear  it  if  you  say 
You  do  not,  and  of  course  you  '11  say  you 

do, 
Whether  you  do  or  not. 

He.  Then  where  's  the  use 

Of  asking  me  ? 

She.  Because  I  must,  must  know, 

And  I  shall  know  it  by  your  voice,  face, 

tone, 
Whatever   you  may   say.     Oh  !  look  at 

me, 

And  say,  as  once  you  said,  a  year  ago,  — 
A  little  year,  —  With  all  my  heart  and 

soul 
I  love  you. 

He.  Why,  of  course,  of  course,  I  do  ! 
She.  Of  course  ?     And  why  of  course  ? 

Is  that  the  way 
To  say   you  love   me  ?     Ah !  't  is  as  I 

feared. 
I  see  it  all. 


282        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  What  do  you  see  or  fear  ? 

What   have    I   said  or   done    that  thus 

point-blank 

You  ask  me  if  I  love  you  ?     Have  I  not 
Told  you  a  hundred  times,  as  now  again 
I  tell  you,  that  I  love  you  ? 

She.  Yes  ;  but  not 

As  now  you  say  it. 

He.  Ay  ;  but  ne'er  before 

As  now  have  you  demanded  in  such  tone 
My  love.     Is  it  an  accusation  now  ? 
She.  An  accusation  ? 
He.  Yes  ;  for  it  implies 

Something  or  said,  or  done,  or  left  un 
done, 
Some  fault,  or  some  neglect,  I  know  not 

what, 

Of  which  I  have  been  guilty.    What  is  it  ? 
She.  I  do  not  know.     I  only  see  and 

feel 
There  is  a  difference.     No  !    You  cannot 

say 
As  once  you  said,  "  I  love  you."     That 

is  why 

I  ask  you  if  you  love  me  —  really  — 
He.  That   is    a   question    one   should 

never  ask, 
For  one  should  know  it  without  asking  it. 


LATER  READINGS  283 

She.  Well  !     Still  I  ask  it,  for  I  fear  ! 

I  fear  ! 
He.  You  are  too  foolish,  dearest.     You 

must  know 
I  love  you. 

She.  No  !  It  will  not  do.  You  see 
It  will  not  do.  You  could  not  say  it  thus 
If  you  did  really  love  me. 

He.  Nor  could  you 

Ask  such  a  question  and  in  such  a  way. 
For  there   is  nothing  numbs,  and  hurts, 

and  kills, 

Or,  let  us  say,  that  brushes  off  the  bloom 
Of  tender,  delicate  love,  like  the    rude 

touch 

Of  such  suspicion.     Love  should  not  sus 
pect, 
But  should  believe,  trust,  feel  beyond  all 

doubt, 
Beyond  all  question.     Doubt  divides  and 

chills. 
When  confidence  departs,  love  spreads  its 

wings, 

As  if  at  least  it  purposed  to  take  flight, 
Whether  it  flies  or  not. 

She.  And  if  one  sees 

Love  lift  and  shake  its  wings,  one  should 

not  cry, 
Ah  !  Are  you  going  ? 


284         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

He.  Never  !     If  it  goes, 

It   goes.     Such  questions  are  not  to  be 

asked. 

She.  What  should  we  do,  then  ? 
He.  As  Cordelia  did, 

"  Love  and  be  silent."   If  it  goes,  it  goes. 

What  can   prevail  to   stay  it   from   its 
flight  ? 

Questions  ?     Recriminations  ?     Jealous 
ies? 

She.  How  can   I  help  being  jealous? 
Yes,  in  truth 

I  am  jealous,  jealous  of  the  very  air. 

I  would  have  all  of  you,  —  the  very  all, 

Not   part   and  share    with  others,   even 
though 

The   best  you  gave   me.     All  !   I  have 
given  all, 

I  would  have  all.    'T  is  different  with  you. 

All  men  are  different,  I  suppose,  from  us. 

You  have  so  many  second-bests  ;  but  we 

Have  but  one  best,  and  that  lost,  all  is 

lost. 
He.  So  I  suppose  the  lover,  if,  in  truth, 

He  really  loves,  all  friendship  should  ab 
jure, 

Being  second-bests  ;  should  flee  society 

To  worship  only  at  one  single  shrine. 


LATER  READINGS  285 

She.  I  think  you  men  have  all  of  you 

half-hearts. 
He.  When  we  give  half,  then  we  have 

given  all. 
What  can  you  ask  for  more  ? 

She,  I  ask  no  more. 

Forgive  me,  I  will  try  to  be  content. 
Only   I   thought  —       No  matter  what  I 

thought  ; 

You  would  not  understand  me,  if  indeed 
I  understand  myself.  Count  all  unsaid 
That  I  have  spoken.  I  was  foolish, 

wrong  ; 
But  when  one  fears  to  lose  what  is  one's 

life, 

'Tis  hard  to  be  wise,  prudent,  and,  in 
deed, 
Even   sensible,  at    all  times.      'T  is  my 

love 
That  makes  me  jealous.     Let  us  say  no 

more. 
Go  back  and   flirt  with   any  and    with 

all, 

And  I  will  strive  to  trust  you  utterly. 
But   smile   now.     Say   that  you  forgive 

me  !     No  ! 
Not  with  that  face,  that  tone,  in  that  cold 

way! 


286         A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry,  dearest,  so  ashamed  ; 
But  still  I  could  not  help  it  ;  could  not 

live 
While  even  a  breath  of  doubt  was  on  my 

faith. 
Let  us  forget  it  all. 

He.  I  wish  I  could. 

'T  is  easy  enough  to  say,  I  will  forget. 
To  do  so  is  not  always  in  our  power, 
Even  with  the  best  of  will,  —  but  to  for 
give, 

Ah,  that  is  really  easy  ;  and,  besides, 
What  is  there  to  forgive  ?     Nothing  at 

all. 

I  'm  sorry  that  you  doubted  me,  but  still 
JT  was  in  your  nature,  and  you  spoke  it 

out, 
And   that  was   honest,  true,  and   frank, 

like  you  ; 

Better  than  keeping  it  hid  out  of  sight 
To    breed    and   poison    all   your   secret 

thoughts. 
So  let  us  think  no  more  of  it. 

How  sweet 

These  roses  smell !  and  in  the  opal  sky 
There  's  not  a  cloud.     Yes,  one,  a  pale, 

thin  rack 
That  even  now  is  melting  into  air. 


LATER  READINGS  287 

She.  Ah,  you  were  always,  always  gen 
erous. 

Will  you  go  with  me  in  the  garden  now  ? 
The  moon  is  at  its  full.  On  such  a  night, 
'Twas  June,  as  you  remember,  and  the 

air 
Was  faint  with  perfume,  thrilling  to  the 

bursts 

Of  hidden  nightingales  that,  all  unseen, 
Poured  forth  their  pulsing  passion  to  the 

night  ; 
When  —  Ah  !  you  know  what  happened 

then,  —  that  hour 

Of  overwhelming  feeling  that  entranced 
The  world  around  us,  bearing  us  away 
Above  the  real  to  ideal  realms, 
Beyond   all   telling,  —  with    a   torrent's 

force, 
Sweeping  us   on,  on,    on,    to   where,   to 

what, 
We   knew  not,    thought  not,  cared  not. 

Silently, 
Reft   of   all  will,  we  gave  ourselves   to 

fate, 
And  fate  was  love,  and  you  were  all  in 

all 
To  me,    as    I    to   you.      That   night   of 

nights, 


288        A  POETS  PORTFOLIO 

That  hour  of  hours,  while  life  and  sense 

remain, 
Come   what  come  may,  we    never  shall 

forget. 
He.  Let  us,  then,  live  it  over  now  once 

more. 
She.  Say  what  you  said  then.     Do  as 

then  you  did  ! 
Be  mine   again  as   then   you  were  ;    no 

thought 
Within  your  heart  but  me,  no  wish  for 

more 
Than  I  could  give,  did  give  ;  for  what  I 

gave 
Was  my  whole  heart,  that  nevermore  in 

life 
I   can   take   back.     'Tis  yours,   forever 

yours. 
Never  in   life  ?     No  !      Never  even  in 

death. 
For  what  were  heaven  without  you,  my 

own  love  ! 
And  oh,  forgive  me  !     In  your  heart  you 

know 
'T  is  my  deep  love  that  wants,  and  longs, 

and  craves, 
And  must  have  all,  —  oh,    more  than  I 

deserve, 


LATER  READINGS  289 

So  much   more  —  that  is  nothing  ;  that, 

indeed, 

Is  simply  nothing.     What  I  want  is  all ; 
I  cannot  share  you.     In  your  love  I  live  ; 
It  is  the  very  air  my  soul  must  breathe, 
Or  else  I  die. 

He.  Who  could  resist  you,  dear  ? 

Not  I,  indeed  !    my  own  beloved  wife. 
She.  Then  you  do  love  me  ? 
He.  Ah,  too  well  you  know 

I  love   you,  and   how   deeply   you   may 

guess 
From  what  you  feel  yourself  ;  but  then 

you  see 

I  cannot  say  it,  cannot  pour  it  forth 
In  words,  in  tones,  like  yours. 

She.  You  did  that  night. 

Ah,  then  your  very  soul  was  on  your  lips. 
You  took  me  as  an  angel  takes  a  spirit, 
And  bore  me  up  to  heaven. 

He.  One  cannot  live 

Always  at  heights  like  that.     The  truest 

love 
With  time  grows  calmer,  stiller,  not  less 

deep. 

She.  Colder,  perhaps. 
He.  No  ;  if  an  angel  came 

To  serve  us,  live  with  us,  we  could  not 
bow 


290        A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

In  endless  adoration  ;  that  at  last 
Would    spoil    all    earthly   living.      We 

should  joy 
With  heartfelt  gladness  and  content  to 

see 
Her  happy  smile,  her  gentle  charm,  her 

grace, 
Her  perfeetness,   and   feel  that   it   was 

ours. 

We  should  o'erlookthe  angel  in  the  wife, 
And  for  the  comfort,  help,  and  cheer  she 

lent, 
Give  voiceless  blessing,  —  that  we  could 

not  speak  ; 

But  if  beyond  the  simple  human  ways 
She    claimed    an    attitude    of    constant 

prayer 

And  humble  adoration,  that  at  last 
Would  tire  out   love,   and    simply   ruin 

life. 
She.  And  is  it  this  you  think  I  crave  of 

you? 
He.  Of  course  not.     What  I  mean  is, 

in  this  life 
We  must  not  ask  too   much,  nor  make 

ourselves 
The  gauge  of   others,  even  of  those  we 

love, 


LATER  READINGS  291 

Thinking  what  we  ourselves  would  say 

or  do, 
If  left   by  them   unsaid,  undone,  would 

mean 

All  it  would  mean  in  us.     Much  is  un 
said, 

However  deeply  felt  ;  much  left  undone 
Through     simple    carelessness.        Some 

must  express 

All  that  they  feel,  and  even  go  beyond 
Into  excess,  perhaps  ;  while  others  hide 
Out  of  pure  shyness  what  lies  deep  with 
in, 

Hiding  it  as  a  miser  hoards  his  gold. 
She.  And  so  you  think  that  I  am  one 

of  those 

Who  overstate,  exaggerate,  while  you 
Keep  silence,  understate,  and  hide  your 

thoughts  ? 

He.  Something  like  that  I  offer  as  ex 
cuse 

For  my  shortcomings.     You've  a  kind 
lier  power 

Of  pouring  all  your  heart  out  into  words. 
She.  Words  ?     Only  words  ? 
He.  No,  no  !     Not  only  words. 

'Tis  real  all  to  you.     Your  eager  love 
Springs  like  a  fountain  up  into  the  sun, 


292         A  POET'S  PORTFOLIO 

And  frankly  showers  its  blessing  and  de 
light  ; 

Mine,    like    a    runnel    coursing    under 
ground, 

Steals  out  of  sight,  not  caring  to  be  seen. 

"Tis  my  fault,  'tis  my  nature.     Yours, 
you  see, 

Is  gladder,  brighter,  better  every  way. 

Even  now,  you  see,  I  cannot  say  to  you 

What  lies   within  my  heart,  strive  as  I 
may. 

But  trust  me  when  I  say,  with  all  my 
heart 

I  love  you. 

She.       Oh,  my  dearest,  first,  and  best, 

My  only  love,  forgive  me.     I  indeed 

Aiu  such  a  fool  ;  but  oh,  I  love  you  so 

I  cannot  share  a  tittle  of  your  heart 

With  any  other,  scarcely  in  the  way 

Even  of  friendship,  saving  for  a  man. 
He.  Well  !     We  are  friends  now,  are 

we  not  ? 
She.  What?     Friends? 

That  is   too  cold  a  word  ;   too  bleak  a 
word  ; 

That  is  the  stalk,  and  not  the  flower  of 
love. 

I  want  the  perfect  flower. 


LATER  READINGS  293 

He.  You  shall  have  both. 

Hark  !     There  's  the   nightingale  again. 

He  knows  ! 

To  him  great  nature  gave  the  power  to  say 
I  love  you,  with  that  utterance  full  and 

rich 

And  passionate  as  none  else  have  save  you. 
I  can  but  caw  and  twitter  at  the  best. 
She.  You  are  the  dearest,  truest,  best 

on  earth  ! 
He.  Far  from  it  ;  but  no  matter.     I  at 

least 
Am  true  to  you.     But,  dear,  't  is  growing 

late, 

And  you  are  tired.     Shall  we  now  go  in  ? 
She.  Tired  ?     Oh,   no  !     Go  in  ?    Oh, 

no,  not  yet ! 

I  only  wish  this  night  would  last  forever! 
Oh,  I  'm  so  sorry,  so  ashamed  ;  and  yet 
So  glad,  oh,  so  unutterably  glad  ! 
Tell  me  again  you  love  me,  and  again, 
Again,  again,  a  hundred  thousand  times  ; 
And  bid  time  stop  and  listen  while  you 

say  it ; 
And  let  the  stars,  trees,  flowers,  all  earth, 

all  heaven, 
Keep  record  of  those  dear  and  blessed 

words  ! 


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